


a few rounds

by tonystarktrash



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcoholic Tony Stark, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Canon Divergence - Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Civil War (Marvel), Denial of Feelings, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Out, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Requited Unrequited Love, Resolved Sexual Tension, Secret Relationship, Sparring, Suicidal Thoughts, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and in the second chapter - Freeform, and then..., steve wants what he can't have, tony wants what he can't have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 12:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19928257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonystarktrash/pseuds/tonystarktrash
Summary: “You’ve got good form,” Steve says admiringly after watching Tony land a few hits. He moves to stand at his side, watching the muscles in Tony’s forearms tense with each punch. “Who taught you?”“There’s not much to it,” Tony says between gritted teeth, sweat burning in his eyes, “I just picture your face on the bag and pummel the shit out of it.”what begins as a frantic kiss shared in the boxing ring rapidly transforms into something much, much more.





	1. Chapter 1

The punching bag swings back as Tony lands another hit against it, jarring his arm all the way up to his shoulder. He snarls, left arm cocked back, and hits it again. It has been a long time since he’s boxed, but today has been particularly stressful – hell, the past six months have been extremely stressful. Sweat trickles down his back, soaking into the black tank top he had thrown on with shaking hands, his designer suit lying crumpled in a heap in the locker room. Wrapping his knuckles with white tape had been easy enough, tugging on the boxing gloves with his teeth had been a struggle, but now he’s here – completely alone, able to throw as many punches as he wants.

Another jarring hit, painful this time.

_I can’t do this anymore, Tony. You need to make a choice._

He’s technically homeless now – each week he’s in a new hotel, getting a very in depth tour of what lower Manhattan had to offer. The tower – Stark Tower, Avengers Tower, whatever you wanted to call it – is off limits. Not that he’s angry about that, though his brown eyes are dark as his fists fly. No, Pepper needed a place to live – and they were broken up, weren’t they, so he couldn’t exactly sleep in the bedroom next to theirs – hers. Maybe he can spend the night here – Tony laughs breathlessly, bitterly. Even here, at the Avengers compound, he’s an outsider. Just the purveyor of goods and services, the guy who stopped by to upgrade everyone’s tech – or the guy who stopped by to issue a warning. 

Sokovia. Ultron. His mistakes. And now, the Avengers are paying for them – though no one seems to realize the severity of the Sokovia Accords. Nobody but Tony.

“I didn’t know you boxed.”

Tony’s fist slips off the side of the bag, thrown off by the sudden appearance of Steve Rogers just behind him. He whirls around, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to ignore how stupid he feels in these clunky boxing gloves.

“There are a lot of things you don’t know, Cap.” Tony says dryly, shifting on his feet. _God, he’s a tall son of a bitch._ “For instance, the United Nations -.”

Steve holds up his hand, and Tony’s eyebrows raise, but his lips clamp together all the same. _Shut up, Stark. Always telling me to shut up. Arrogant bastard._

“I don’t want to talk about that right now, Tony – haven’t we talked about it enough?”

Tony laughs, bordering on manic. “Are you kidding me, Steve? We’ve barely scratched the surface – hell, you’ve not even read the goddamn thing, and you shot it down.” 

Steve crosses his own arms over his chest, his jaw set. “Come on, Tony, I’m serious. Can’t we just… put a pin in it? Just for right now – I came to check on you, you said you had a headache.”

 _I do have a headache. I’m looking at it right now._ And yet, Steve’s bright blue eyes are earnest, and aside from his arms crossed over his chest, his body language is mostly open. 

“I’m feeling better,” Tony says gruffly, turning his back on Steve and hitting the bag with a hook.

“You’ve got good form,” Steve says admiringly after watching Tony land a few hits. He moves to stand at his side, watching the muscles in Tony’s forearms tense with each punch. “Who taught you?”

“There’s not much to it,” Tony says between gritted teeth, sweat burning in his eyes, “I just picture your face on the bag and pummel the shit out of it.”

Steve laughs, shaking his head. “You wanna try the real thing?”

Again, Tony’s punch misses. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“We could spar,” Steve gestures over to the boxing ring a few paces away – Tony imagines Steve building it by himself, in the hopes that someone would one day step into the ring with him. He glances at Steve’s biceps, calculating the amount of pressure he could issue with each punch.

“You’re crazy. You’d kill me. I’m not stupid, Steve, and this -,” he waves his glove over his face, “This is a priceless face. You’d be in debt for the rest of your life, with the amount of bills you’d get from my plastic surgeon.”

“I’m not gonna beat you up, Tony.” Steve is already walking towards the locker room. “You can wear some headgear, if that’ll make you feel better.”

“No, I’m not gonna wear that shit,” Tony calls after him, though he feels as though he’s floating above himself. _How about that for a teenage fantasy, Stark? Getting hot and sweaty with Steve Rogers in a boxing ring._ Tony laughs, a strangled sound. He reaches out and steadies the swinging punching bag, wishing there was someone there to steady him. 

He starts to pace, his hands behind his back, wondering what Steve would think if he just bolted. Even if Steve pulled his punches, it would sure as shit still hurt, right? Was Steve even capable of holding back? Tony really doesn’t want to have his head busted open, but it might actually help alleviate his headache – and just because Steve was holding back didn’t mean that Tony had to. Maybe he could beat some sense into him.

“Hey, Tony, could you give me a hand?”

Tony walks slowly towards the locker room, his thoughts running wild, not all of them appropriate. Steve Rogers standing in the shower, now _that_ would be a fantasy that Tony had cultivated and enjoyed for many, many years. _Thanks, Dad, for the Captain America hero worship._

Steve isn’t in the shower, though, and he’s (unfortunately) completely clothed. He’s wearing blue shorts, which makes Tony laugh, he’s never seen Steve’s bare legs before. They’re muscular, of course they are, but pale. 

“You need to get out in the sun, Cap.” Tony says as he straddles the bench in front of Steve, teeth gripping the Velcro strap of his own glove, ripping each one off. Wiggling his numb fingers, he picks up the roll of handwrap that Steve had placed in front of him.

“Yeah, I’m finding it hard to get away, actually. I need a beach vacation,” Steve says dryly, watching as Tony picks up his left hand and starts to wrap it for him.

“Have you ever actually been on a vacation?” Tony brings Steve’s hand up to his mouth, so that he can tear the tape with his teeth. He grabs his right hand, holding his breath without even realizing it, his fingertips gently brushing over the calluses on Steve’s palm before getting to work. 

“Unless you call a couple decades in the ice a vacation, no.” Steve stares at Tony while he’s got his head bent down, focused on wrapping Steve’s hand. His hair is damp from sweat, curling gently, and that’s new – Steve has only ever really seen Tony impeccably dressed and groomed or bloody and bruised in the middle of a mission.

“There, all done. You could’ve done that yourself.” Tony picks up his gloves, holding one under his arm as he works the other onto his hand. “You can get your gloves on yourself,” he says over his shoulder, leaving Steve alone in the locker room. “Get me a mouth guard, will you?” Tony’s voice echoes into the room, Steve sat paralyzed on the bench. “If you knock a tooth out of my mouth I’ll kill you.”

Tony slips under the ropes of the ring, dancing around the mat, trying to work out some of his anxious energy. _Has anyone ever sparred with Captain America before? Is this one for this history books?_ He nearly bumps into Steve as he gets into the ring, caught up in his own thoughts. Steve steadies him with a red glove to the shoulder, pressing the gold mouth guard into the palm of Tony’s black glove. 

“Thanks,” Tony says around the mouth guard as he shoves it into his mouth. “This isn’t a used one, is it?” 

“I threw it into the toilet just now,” Steve says around his own, his mouth now startlingly white, even whiter than his perfect teeth. 

“Will you die if you don’t wear red, white, and blue?” Tony gestures to Steve’s outfit – his red boxing gloves, white tank top, blue shorts, white mouth guard – it’s comical. “Like, will you combust?”

“Are you gonna throw a punch, Tony, or just dance around?”

“I did ballet as a kid. You envy my footwork,” Tony says, stepping closer to Steve, the other man’s eyes on his right hand when they really should be on his left. Steve seems completely unfazed as Tony’s fist strikes him in the ribs, though Tony doubles over and draws his hand back. 

“Jesus Christ!” Tony backs up, his eyes wide, hand on fire. “Are you just bricks under there? Christ.” His head snaps back as Steve’s fist lands on his jaw, knocking the wind out of him – and were he not wearing a mouth guard, he would have severed his tongue in half between his teeth. 

“Shut up and box, Tony,” Steve grins at him, holding his arms up defensively. “You left yourself wide open.”

_Asshole._

They exchange a flurry of blows, Steve landing punch after punch to his ribs, his abdomen – Tony feels as though he’ll be a mosaic of bruises tomorrow. If Steve wasn’t holding back, he’d probably just be a slurry of lacerated organs – so at least there’s that. Tony, to his credit, gets in a few blows that seem to rattle Steve, because the supersoldier’s next right hook sends Tony sprawling face first onto the mat. 

Tony groans against the fabric, his head swimming. “Jesus.”

“Come on, Stark,” Steve’s feet dance around him, the mat bouncing under his weight – Tony feels like a rag doll thrown onto a trampoline. “Get up.”

Tony slowly pushes himself onto his feet, staggering into the ropes, his knees going weak. “I think I’m concussed.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Steve assures him, though the blonde moves towards him, lifting an arm to steady him. Tony’s fist lands hard on his abdomen, and he hears air puff out between Steve’s lips.

“Cheap shot,” Steve groans, pushing Tony back against the ropes.

“Oh, really?” Tony lands another blow, grinning against the mouth guard, his teeth grinding into the rubber. Steve’s forearms are like rods of steel, Tony’s knuckles swelling inside of his gloves as his fists attempt to get through the barrier Steve has created to his body.

_Big man in a suit of armor. Take that off, what are you?_

_You’re not the guy to make the sacrifice play._

_Stop pretending to be a hero._

_Let’s just say you haven’t seen it yet._

_The safest hands are still our own._

Steve’s white mouth guard, now pink with blood and spit, flies out of his mouth and lands on the mat. He shoves Tony away with all of his strength, sending the other man flying into the ropes on the other side of the ring.

“Christ, Tony, what’s the matter with you?!”

Tony spits out his own mouth guard, panting, grabbing the Velcro of his glove between his teeth and tearing it. His boxing gloves thump against the mat, his swollen, wrapped hands clenched in trembling fists at his sides.

“What’s the matter with me? With me?!”

Steve’s blood patters against the fabric, there’s a long cut from his eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone, and it looks pretty deep. _Huh. I made him bleed – see that, Stark? He bleeds._

Steve struggles to get his own gloves off, though he cocks back his arm as Tony advances towards him. “I’ll lay you out, Tony, I swear to God. Christ, why did you do that?”

“I did it because you’re an idiot!” Tony seethes, kicking Steve’s stupid red boxing gloves across the ring as they fall to the floor. “You’ve always been – in the way! All my dad ever fucking talked about was you, how great you were. How strong Captain America was, how brave, how polite, how fucking handsome. How could I not fall in love with Captain America, right? Even the idealized picture my dad painted. You know how many muscular blonde guys I took home with me in my whole life? You know how many of ‘em would call themselves Steve if I asked?” 

Steve stares at him uncomprehendingly, reaching up to prod at the cut on his face, staining the white tape on his hand red.

“And then I met you – and there’s the rub – you hated me the moment you laid eyes on me. Just my luck, right? Ever since I was 15, I had the biggest fucking – infatuation, with you – I kept a fucking Captain America poster above my bed at MIT, for Christssakes.” 

Steve says nothing, just stares at him solemnly – and Tony sees hurt in the depths of Steve’s blue eyes. Not pain from the punch, but hurt.

“We’re not even friends,” Tony snaps. “We’re work colleagues, if anything. You work with me because you have to, because I give you neat stuff. Just once, I wanted – I wanted you to like me, the minute you met me. Because you were my idol, Steve, honest to God. Yeah, you caused a bit of a sexual crisis for me, too – but at the end of the day, I wanted to be you as much as I wanted to sleep with you. And now you can’t even bring yourself to see something from my point of view, because you’re so… sickeningly self-righteous. Dad never featured that personality trait in his stories – no, the mighty Captain America was **always** right. So am I wrong, is that what you’re trying to tell me? Am I wrong for wanting to keep the Avengers together? Because this is the only way we keep the Avengers together, I’m not exaggerating. This is the beginning of something much bigger than us – and your stupid inability to let me be right, for once!”

“What do you want, Tony?” Steve asks him tiredly, his fingertips red as he pulls his hands away from his face. _At least he’s not laying me out for saying that I was in love with him til I met him. ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t love him now, do I? Nope, not one bit._ “You want me to tell you that you’re right? Is that what you need?”

“I want…” _God, I’m so fucking lonely._ “I want.” Tony steps into Steve’s space, crowding him. His hands reach up, cupping Steve’s face as he leans up on his tiptoes ( _Goddamn, he’s a tall son of a bitch_ ) and presses his lips to Steve’s. Steve tenses, and Tony closes his eyes, expecting a punch that’ll take his head off of his shoulders. But then Steve’s arms wrap around him, pulling him closer, until Tony is pressed up flush against him. His lips part against Tony’s, and Tony’s hand bunches in the damp fabric of his tank top. Steve’s tongue is hot, and his body is hard and unyielding against his, and his blood tastes of iron and sweet, sweet satisfaction. Tony wants to kiss him until he can’t breathe, wants to pull him down onto the mat and…

Steve grunts as Tony shoves him away, bumping into the ropes behind him, and his expression is a mixture of disappointment and confusion.

“Tony?” Steve reaches up to touch at his own lips, still smarting from the burn of Tony’s goatee, the sting of his teeth. The door to the gym slams shut, Steve’s blood slowly trickling down the curve of his jaw and onto the mat below. 


	2. Chapter 2

Steve eventually leaves the ring, once his legs don’t feel so wobbly. He walks into the locker room, sitting down on one of the benches so that he can unwrap his hands. He’s still bleeding, he can feel it trickling warmly down the side of his face, and he shakes his head with a befuddled smile. Tony had swung at him with his full force, and he had packed quite a punch – and then… His fingers touch his lips, closing his eyes for a moment. Tony had kissed him, kissed him hard – but only for a few moments, a few perfect moments, and then he had left Steve standing alone in the ring like an idiot.

Tony’s suit is crumpled on the floor, and Steve wonders if he had left the compound in his shorts and tank top – if he had fled from the very idea of kissing Steve with such desperation that he had left behind a no doubt incredibly expensive bespoke suit. He picks it up off the floor, slinging the trousers over his arm, moving to one of the lockers to find a hanger. Tony’s car keys spill out of the pocket of his trousers, jangling on the floor, and Steve can’t help but smile again. So, Tony was still here – good, they’d have to talk. Tony’s cologne wafts off of the suit as Steve hangs it up in the locker, and he finds himself leaning towards it, breathing in the scent deeply. Tony’s fingers had curled against his back, bunching the fabric of his tank top in his hand, Steve had felt blunt fingernails digging through the fabric and into his skin. He blushes, pulling away from the suit, shaking his head in an effort to clear it. He ought to find Tony, he decides, leaning down to pick up his keys. Just to give him his keys, nothing more than that.

Tony curses under his breath as he knocks a set of sterilized tweezers to the floor, his swollen hands aching as he digs through the drawer of medical supplies. The compound is oddly quiet – perhaps everyone is sat in their own rooms, reading over the copy of the Sokovia Accords that Tony had brought for each one of them. _Fat fucking chance. Maybe they’re all shredding them and doing papier-mâché to make a Tony Stark effigy._ He picks up the box of butterfly bandages, hefting it in his palm. The cut on Steve’s face had been deep enough to warrant these – but would Steve take care of himself, or would he just let it scab over and scar? Tony reaches up, pressing his knuckles to his forehead – his headache is back, though he doesn’t think it’s one of the electromagnetic variety. No, this headache is the result of the stiff jab to the jaw that Steve had doled out, and the fact that Steve’s arms had held him close as they had kissed. Steve’s lips had parted against his own. That wasn’t supposed to happen – no, Tony was supposed to kiss him for maybe three seconds, and then Steve was supposed to shove him away. Steve wasn’t supposed to reciprocate any sort of interest, because that wouldn’t make any sense. Tony was acting on a fantasy he’d had since puberty, nothing more – and once he got it out of his system, he would finally be able to look at Steve in a new light. A clearer light.

But Steve had kissed him back.

“You gonna use those on your hands?” Steve asks, watching Tony as he drops the box in his surprise, though Steve catches it easily before it hits the ground. “Didn’t know I cut you. I kinda thought it was the other way around.”

“I’m looking for an ice pack,” Tony snaps, moving away from him. He reminds Steve of an injured wild dog, his teeth barred, hackles rising. Don’t touch me, his body language screams – but Tony’s eyes focus on Steve’s lips for a moment, and Steve watches as Tony crosses his arms defensively over his chest. Touch me, his eyes had said.

“You’re looking for an ice pack in here? You might want to check the freezer.” Steve pulls open another drawer, rooting around for a moment. “I found some.” They’re the first aid ice packs, the ones that you had to snap in half to get cool – not as nice as a real ice pack, but the med-bay is private. They need privacy, because Steve doesn’t know where this conversation is going to go. He knows what he wants, though, he wants Tony’s fingers in his hair, wants to hear Tony panting against his lips as Steve steals his air. The ice pack crunches in Steve’s fist, cold against his palm. 

Tony still has his arms crossed over his chest, looking at Steve uncertainly. In the bright fluorescent lights of the med-bay, Steve can make out the bruise he had left on Tony’s jaw, a deep purple that fades into the darkness of Tony’s goatee. 

“I’m not going to punch you, Tony,” Steve says, gesturing to one of the chairs. “Go on, sit down. I’ll help you unwrap your hands.”

“Bring the butterfly bandages,” Tony mumbles, running his fingers through his hair idly, and Steve can practically hear the cogs in his brain turning as he thinks. Tony is always thinking.

“Okay,” Steve agrees, turning his back to Tony so that he can collect the box from the top of the drawer. He cocks his head slightly, hearing the shift of fabric, the slight sigh that escapes Tony as he sits down.

Tony watches him as he drags a chair over towards where he’s sitting, and Tony’s expression is inscrutable. Sometimes, Steve finds cracks in the façade – sometimes. Like when he’s drinking a bottle of beer, and Tony’s eyes fixate on his lips as he takes a sip. Or when someone says something funny, and Tony turns to Steve with a grin, his eyes bright with mirth. Steve had never thought twice about those little cracks, those little tells – but now he’s thinking over every time Tony’s gaze had lingered on him.

“You left your keys,” Steve informs him as he sits down in front of Tony. He sets the ice pack on Tony’s knee, watching the other man as he grimaces and moves it onto the fabric of his shorts, a red mark left behind on tan skin from the sudden cold. “Here.” Steve pulls the keys out of his pocket, extending them towards Tony. Tony takes them, his fingers brushing over the inside of Steve’s wrist – every movement is calculated. 

“Thanks,” Tony says quietly, pocketing them clumsily, frowning down at his hands. “Busted my hands on your thick skull. Did the serum replace your bones with metal, or something?” 

“Feels that way, sometimes,” Steve says as he grabs Tony’s left hand, feeling the tension searing off of his skin. “When I get up in the morning, sometimes I feel like I’m fighting against my own body as well as gravity. It takes some getting used to.” Steve carefully starts to unwrap Tony’s hand, wincing at the swollen red flesh underneath. “You ever punch someone that hard?” 

“No,” Tony says dryly, though his voice lacks its usual sharpness – it has a strangled quality, like Tony can’t catch his breath. “No, I had to save that for Captain America. Thought the gloves would protect ‘em, anyways.”

He sets Tony’s hand down, lifting up the other. “Rookie mistake. You’re lucky you didn’t break your fingers. They’re just gonna hurt like hell for the next couple of days.”

His eyes are focused on Tony’s hand, the pad of his thumb brushing over one bruised knuckle, hearing Tony inhale sharply.

“You’re still bleeding,” Tony pulls his hand away once Steve’s finished, staggering to his feet. “What about that enhanced healing factor?” He’s back at the drawer of medical supplies, pulling out rubbing alcohol and a pad of gauze.

“Guess I’ve never been hit that hard before,” Steve says, his eyes on Tony. The other man stands so stock-still, so tense, Steve wants to draw him – but he doesn’t think he’d do it justice, how could someone be so tense?

“I’ll be looking out for my trophy in the mail.” Tony mumbles under his breath as he walks back over to where Steve is sitting, the other man tossing the ice pack between his hands. “Let me take care of your cut, first,” he says as he sits down.

“Just ice it for a minute, Tony,” Steve requests, grabbing his wrist as he sets his supplies down on the table beside his chair. He can feel the bones of Tony’s wrist shift in his grip, can feel his pulse, strong and swift. 

“You’re bleeding,” Tony snaps, feeling like a broken record, but he doesn’t wrench his wrist out of Steve’s grip, and he doesn’t knock the ice pack off of his hands once Steve places it there.

“Yup,” Steve shakes his head slightly, watching Tony’s shoulders shift down as some of the tension leaks out of them. “I’ve been bleeding for a while now, I think I can handle a couple more minutes. You want to walk out of here with catcher’s mitts for hands?”

“Not really,” Tony is staring down at his own hands again, not looking at Steve – intentionally not looking at Steve. “I have a big meeting tomorrow. Christ, it’s a big meeting.” 

Steve can hear him thinking again, can see the tension tightening the muscles in his shoulders. “Stop thinking,” he says, pressing down on the ice pack. “It’s not conducive to healing.”

“Oh, thank you, Dr. Rogers,” Tony simpers sardonically. “Whatever would I do without you? Not conducive to healing, fuck off. I have to think, because I’m the only Avenger who has the brains to navigate a fucking… treacherous political climate – but, oh, excuse me, I forgot. You don’t want to talk about it.” 

“We can talk about it later,” Steve says easily – even though he knows it is anything but easy.

“There is no later!” The ice pack falls from Tony’s hands as he reaches out and grabs Steve by the shoulders, his expression one of wild intensity. “Do I have to punch it into you? Is that the only way you understand?” He shakes Steve’s shoulders weakly, suddenly realizing how close he is to Steve’s face. He can feel the heat radiating off of his skin. “There is no later.”

Steve shifts forward slowly, closing the distance between them, centimeter by centimeter. He expects Tony to bolt again, as his lips brush against his, barely more than a touch. Tony doesn’t bolt, but he does pull away. Steve glances down for a moment, wondering if that’s a bulge in Tony’s shorts or just wishful thinking and the way the fabric is bunched up from how he’s sitting.

“You’re bleeding,” he repeats robotically, grabbing the bottle of rubbing alcohol from the table. Quickly, his hand is cupped over Steve’s eye, guarding it as he rips the cap off of the bottle with his teeth, dumping a generous amount on Steve’s cut. 

It stings, and Steve closes his eyes and wonders if the burn is punishment for the kiss.

“I’m terrible at stitches,” Tony says suddenly, wiping away the excess rubbing alcohol with the pad of gauze, pressing it hard against the cut. “You’d think I’d be good at them, with all the work I do with my hands. But – I don’t know – my work is never as gentle as stitches are. I always end up with sloppy zig-zags, and ugly scars, so… Butterfly bandages are my best solution.” He’s babbling, nervous. The box rips as Tony tries to open it, and he curses under his breath. “Fuck’s sake." 

Steve opens his eyes as Tony shifts to his feet in front of him, unwrapping a few butterfly bandages as he leans in close to Steve’s face to inspect the cut. Tony’s head is tilted to the side, Steve’s eyes are level with his pulse point, and he sees it jumping wildly in his throat. Tony’s touch is gentle as he places the bandages over Steve’s cut, the skin feeling tight as it’s pulled back together.

“It’s definitely going to scar,” Tony worries. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I mean, on the one hand, it makes you look rugged. At least it’s not through your eyebrow, or you’d look like a pirate. But on the other hand, before, someone had never, you know, hurt Captain America. It gave you this air of invincibility.”

Tony pauses as Steve’s lips press against his neck, the bandage wrappers fluttering to the floor as his hand unfurls. His eyes close, doing his best to stay standing – it’s not his fault that Steve had got lucky, had figured him out easily, had placed a kiss on the spot that has always unraveled him. Thoughts of tomorrow’s meeting slip away, thoughts of Steve’s damaged reputation fade.

“You’ve stopped thinking,” Steve murmurs against his skin, and Tony can feel him smile. _Bastard._

Tony’s sore fingers card through Steve’s thick blonde hair, thumb and forefinger rubbing strands slowly between them – his hair as soft as he had imagined it to be. He had spent countless nights of his life gazing up at his Captain America poster, focusing on the hair just above Steve’s temple, the only bit of it visible with his helmet on. What he would give, just to run his hands through Steve Rogers’ hair, and now… Tony bites down on his bottom lip as Steve starts to kiss along his throat, from one side of his neck to the other, his pulse racing.

“Steve.”

“What?” Steve murmurs, “Do you want to talk about it?”

**_Bastard._ **

“No,” Tony says with a slight snarl, tugging Steve by the hair away from his neck, hard enough that Steve’s hand grabs at his side. His lips press to Steve’s with ferocious intensity, with enough strength that one of Steve’s teeth catches his lip and cuts it, his own blood reddening Steve Rogers’ mouth. Years of wanting with one kiss, Tony’s hands greedily grab at any part of Steve he can reach – his hair, his jaw, his shoulders. The chair squeaks as Tony straddles Steve’s lap, pulling him closer to him. 

Steve matches his intensity, as if he has the same pent up longing that Tony has suffered from since he was fifteen – but there’s no way. _No way Steve feels the same._ He makes quick work of Tony’s tank top, throwing it to the floor, and Steve’s hands are on his bare skin. His fingers dance up the bumps of Tony’s spine, they dig into the forming bruises on Tony’s ribs, and Tony gasps into his mouth. 

Steve smells of gunpowder, lead, blood – Tony’s head is swimming. Steve’s tongue brushes over the cut on his lip and Tony’s fingers dig into the muscles of his shoulders, nails leaving half-moons behind. When Steve breaks the kiss, Tony actually whines – and he blushes brightly in mortification. _Jesus Christ._

“Steve,” he says breathlessly, arching against him as Steve’s lips press to his throat again. “Steve, I’m not – I’m not using Neosporin as -.” 

“We’ll go to my room,” Steve murmurs, tongue laving a hot path down the column of his throat. “This isn’t my first time, Tony.”

“Christ, it isn’t? I always wanted to be the one to take Captain America’s virginity.”

Tony spasms against him as Steve’s teeth sink into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, feeling Steve’s hand slip down the front of his abdomen and under the waistband of his shorts. 

Steve’s tongue brushes over the indents his teeth have left behind on Tony’s skin, sure to bruise. “Jesus, Stark. Do you ever shut up?”

Tony leans forward, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple, his brown eyes dark. The coarse hair of his goatee burns against the shell of Steve’s ear, and his lips are soft against blushing skin. “Make me.”

* * *

When Steve opens his eyes, it takes a moment for his world to come into focus. He reaches up slowly, rubbing at them, trying to blink away the gumminess. He’s not sure when he had fallen asleep – Tony had kept him up until daybreak. Not just with sex, though that had taken a lot of the time – with slow kisses, and secrets. Even after Tony had fallen asleep, his head tucked under Steve’s chin, arm sprawled across his chest, Steve had stayed awake. There was so much about Tony that he didn’t know, so much that he wanted to know – but he had learned a little tonight. He had learned how Tony stole the blankets in his sleep, how Tony would murmur a word every now and again, his mind always working. Plus, he had discovered how satisfying it was to hear Tony moan his name, bordering on a sob of relief.

But there’s no curl of dark hair tickling against his lips, there’s no comfortable weight against his chest, no slender fingers digging into his side in a possessive grip. Steve reaches out his arm slowly to the other side of the bed, the sheets cool. So, Tony had bolted – for good this time. He sighs, turning his head towards the window, but the sunlight is blocked out. Tony is sat on the edge of the bed with his back to him, his head in his hands. Steve admires the bite mark on the juncture of his shoulder, the red lines that score down his back. The tension in every muscle fiber, the tension that Steve is desperate to trace out on his sketchbook, so tense that the charcoal would surely snap in his hand.

Goosebumps rise on Tony’s skin in the wake of Steve’s touch, his fingertips brushing over the small of his back.

“You were out like a light,” Tony says, but he sounds guilty – he sounds as though he had just been caught running out the door without saying goodbye. Steve thinks that had he not woken up for another moment, he would have woken up alone.

“Can you blame me?” Steve sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist. He moves over to Tony, pressing his lips over the bite mark. Tony leans back against him, sighing as Steve’s hand brushes over his chest, moving through the small patch of hair to the rough, risen skin of his arc reactor scar. 

“I have a flight.” Tony murmurs, his hands slipping away from his face as Steve’s lips press just below his ear. 

“Take a later one,” Steve requests quietly, feeling Tony tense in his arms. 

“It’s to Vienna,” Tony says, getting to his feet. He’s gotten dressed, and Steve knows that it will take a lot of convincing to get him out of those shorts and back into bed. He turns to face Steve, his expression guarded. “Where’d you put my suit?” 

“It’s hanging up in the locker room,” Steve says, his fingers brushing through Tony’s dark curls, blue eyes meeting brown. “Come back to bed.” 

“Do you always wear these things?” Tony asks, his fingers idly playing with the dog tags resting against Steve’s chest. 

“You could wear them,” Steve says wildly.

“I have a flight,” Tony repeats halfheartedly, allowing Steve to pull him down on top of him as he kisses him slowly.

“Take a later one,” Steve repeats in turn, his arms wrapping around him. Tony is a lean guy, but he’s in shape – that had been one of the night’s delightful discoveries. “There have to be dozens of flights to Vienna.”

“I can’t miss this meeting,” Tony murmurs, his lips brushing over the curve of Steve’s jaw, feeling the faintest scratch of stubble. _What would Steve look like with a beard?_ Now, there’s another fantasy.

“But I want to talk.” Steve had to tell him now – even if it ruined things between them. Tony had kissed him, had murmured something that sounded awfully like ‘I love you’ against his chest in the darkness – and Steve could no longer keep the truth of the death of his parents from him.

Tony tenses in his arms, pushing himself up off of Steve slightly. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Now?”

Steve nods. 

Tony glances at the clock on Steve’s bedside table, so delightfully old-timey. “Steve, I can’t. I’ve got to go. We can talk later, after this meeting? Better yet…”

Tony is back on his feet, moving to the foot of Steve’s bed, he’s suddenly filled with excitement. “You could come with me!”

“Tony…” 

“No, hear me out. You could come with me, you could be at my side. We could be a team, Steve. A real team. Captain America and Iron Man, staunch supporters of the Sokovia Accords – and then we won’t have to talk about it at all. Just…” Tony’s hands drop to his sides, and he’s pleading with Steve – a position he’s almost too proud to be in. “Take my side, for once. Trust me, believe in me, I know I’m doing the right thing for the Avengers – for us. I’ll never ask you to trust me again, Steve, I swear.” Tony smiles wryly, though it fades after a few moments. He meets Steve’s gaze. “Please. Do this for me.”

Tony stares at him searchingly, and then he shakes his head, bruised hands clenched into fists at his sides. 

“God damn it,” he says softly. 

The door to the bedroom closes, though what goes unsaid echoes through the silent room.

_God damn you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dang things got a teeny bit raunchy, huh... alright i think i feel satisfied with this one -- it had to be more than a one shot, but... i made myself sad :(


	3. Chapter 3

Steve is in London, and Tony is in Vienna. Tony had read the text three times under the table while a UN official droned on, reading page 276 of the Sokovia Accords verbatim. _Peggy died._ Two words, that’s all Steve thought Tony was worth – but perhaps he’s being uncharitable. He knew, of course, about Steve and Peggy’s relationship. His Aunt Peggy always softened when she mentioned Captain America, there was always a slight curve of her lips upwards when she said his name. Steve. So softly, reverently almost – like they had shared something secret. The same sort of secret thing Tony had shared with Steve less than 48 hours ago.

There’s a sharp pain in his chest, just under his sternum, and Tony’s hand clenches into a fist on his knee. Peggy Carter, the woman who always slipped him a chocolate bar when his mother wasn’t looking, is dead – and he is unable to attend her funeral, because he is sat at this goddamn table in Vienna, supporting a set of laws that he’s both proud of and ashamed of. _What about them turns Steve’s nose? What about them exactly?_ His thumbs move under the table, typing out a text message to Steve. _Steve, I miss you. Steve, I want you. Come to Vienna. Steve._ The delete button is pressed savagely, over and over, the cursor blinking gently – patiently, waiting for Tony to type out a proper response. He clicks the lock button, sliding the phone back into his pocket, returning his attention to the document in front of him.

He had not served as the CEO of Stark Industries for over ten years without picking up a few skills, here and there. He knew how to parse his way through the garbled language of government, knew how to find the stipulations that had been hidden away in some clause or another, shrunk down in an effort to escape his narrowed eyes. The Sokovia Accords are pristine – yes, there are some things he’s uncomfortable with – does he really need to contact the United Nations and the Department of State if he wants to fly a suit from Manhattan to Newark? Yes, he supposes as he rolls one of his father’s fountain pens between his palms, yes – some of the regulations are intrusive.

And yes, he had to ask Wanda Maximoff not to leave the Avengers compound – ask being a shifty word. She hadn’t tried to leave, thus far, he had checked the security cameras. She was doing something pretty fucking weird, though, Tony had squinted down at the footage in disbelief. He wouldn’t brag, but he considers himself quite experienced when it comes to flirtation, and if he didn’t know any better – Wanda was spending her time flirting with **Vision.** _And I thought I was fucked up for sleeping with Steve. Jesus._

UN officials start getting up from the table, Tony still lost in thought, trying to figure out exactly how Wanda would be able to sleep with Vision – could Vision fabricate external genitalia?

“Mr. Stark?” One of Thaddeus Ross’ young, fresh faced, terrified interns is standing at his shoulder. “It’s time for the ratification process. Secretary Ross wants you to attend.”

_Of course he does._ Tony gets up from the table, reaching into his other pocket to pull out the worn leather pen case. He slides his father’s pen inside, looking down at the matching pen resting in the velvet beside it. _Me and Steve._ Now, there’s a stupid thought, and Tony can’t help but grin – is he _really_ wishing he were a pen right now?

“Mr. Stark?” 

“I heard you the first time,” Tony says dryly, “Do I have time to freshen up?” 

The intern checks his watch, staring at it for a long moment – Tony leans over his wrist, glancing down at the watch-face. 

“Yes, I do have time to freshen up. Tell Ross I’ll be there right on time.”

There’s a car waiting for him at the front of the building, and Tony dips into his moderate grasp of German to request that the driver vacate the wheel. There’s some confusion, some bickering back and forth into a walkie-talkie, and Tony speeds off while his driver-slash-captor is standing with his back to him. 

The shower in the hotel room is one of the rain head varieties – of course it would be, he’s staying in the best hotel in Vienna. Tony closes his eyes, tipping his head forward as the water pounds against the sore muscles in his shoulders and back. _I hate hotel rooms._ The tower had been a home to him, a familiar stomping ground where he could test out any wild idea that came to mind and fall into a familiar bed whenever his body gave out from exhaustion. The beds in hotels, no matter what Trip Advisor suggested to the contrary, are always like sleeping on a rock. _Steve’s bed was comfortable._ Tony closes his eyes tighter as he shifts under the steady stream of water, his hair plastered to his skull, water rushing down his face and neck. There had been no time for a shower, after leaving the compound and rushing to the airport – he had sat in the conference room, looking over the Accords, swearing to God that he smelt like sex and Steve’s sweat – and that somehow, everyone knew. But no one had looked at him funny, no one had commented on the fact that he had bathed in his bottle of cologne. No one knew.

He wipes his hand over the fogged up mirror, gazing at his reflection. There are dark shadows under his eyes, the shower had washed away the concealer he had cautiously applied in the cramped airplane bathroom. His fingers brush over the ragged edge of his goatee, reaching with his other hand for his razor – he has time to take care of that, at least, there are bound to be press photos. He needs to look his best, he needs to look like he himself had written the Sokovia Accords.

Tony’s fingers drop from his goatee to the bruised bite mark at the juncture of his shoulder. _Perfect teeth._ He traces over the indents, barely there, and recalls the warmth of Steve’s tongue as he had soothed the bite slowly. Tony’s hand brushes down the front of his chest, fingers rising and falling over the bumps of his ribs, wincing at the slight pressure against dark purple bruises. Steve had not provided any comfort for those, no, he had swung at Tony’s body with such force that this morning he had almost cried taking his first deep breath. _So much for holding back._

Still distracted by thoughts of Steve’s hands on his body, Tony almost finds himself shaving off half of his goatee, managing a quick flick of his wrist to avoid complete and utter disaster. He throws on one of his favorite suits, a grey three piece by Tom Ford, and fumbles with shaking hands tying his tie.

Natasha Romanoff stands in the doorway to his room, a plastic key disappearing from her hand as Tony walks towards her with his mouth agape.

“How did you – where were you -?”

“I said I was your wife.” 

Natasha’s hands reach up, undoing his crooked tie, her blue eyes focused on the red fabric. 

“They believed that? They know who I am – they know I’m not married.” _She didn’t answer my question._

“I can be very convincing,” Natasha’s hand runs down the front of the tie, flattening it, and her hand catches the very edge of one of the bruises spreading from his ribs. He winces, and she notices.

“Who punched you in the face? Ribs too?” 

“I -,” _I slept with Steve. Hey, Nat, Steve and I totally fucked. I think I told him I loved him, too, which is abso-fucking-lutely the craziest thing I’ve ever done. Because I don’t love him. Not at all._ “Fell?”

“You fell.” Natasha repeats tonelessly. “We’re going to be late.”

“One minute,” Tony pulls away from her, hurrying over to where his suitcase is sloppily thrown open across the bed. He unzips one of the suitcase’s compartments, pulling out what looks to be a smart-watch. One quick tap to the watch-face would provide him with a gauntlet – not much, but better than nothing. _Be prepared._ At least he had learned one thing from Boy Scouts.

Natasha drives – aside from Happy, she is probably the only other person he would trust to get him someplace safely. 

“It was a nice funeral.”

“Oh – you went.” _Did you see Steve? Did he mention me at all? Did he seem distracted?_ “I was sorry to have missed it.”

Natasha glances at him out of the corner of her eye, noticing the anxious thrum of his fingertips against his thigh.

“You didn’t have a choice.”

_Apparently I do. Steve thinks I’m making the wrong one – and when Captain America says you’re wrong, you probably are, right?_

Just as Tony feared, there’s a crowd of reporters outside of the impressive glass UN building in which each nation was to ratify the Accords. His hand twitches at his side as he steps out of the car, wanting to shield his eyes from the flash of cameras. 

“Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark! Are the other Avengers joining you to ratify the Accords today?” 

“Tony! Is it true that you and Pepper Potts are through?”

_Oh. God._ The pain in his chest is worse now, as Natasha quickly guides him into the building, through the throng of reporters.

“Stark.” A voice, so similar to Obadiah Stane – Tony wildly thinks of activating the gauntlet and blasting Thaddeus Ross’ head off of his shoulders. “You’re late.”

* * *

Tony wishes, later, that he hadn’t shown up to the ratification at all. He wishes it as he sits in the back of an ambulance, wincing as a butterfly bandage is pressed over a deep cut at the base of his neck.

“You’ll need stitches,” an EMT tells him hurriedly, before moving on to the next victim. _A bomb. A bomb. King T’Chaka, dead. Representative from France, dead. Me, feeling like I’m dead._ Tony reaches up to press his fingers against the steri-strips pulled tight across his skin. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, the screen shattered at the base. The cursor blinks again, waiting for him to type out his thoughts and feelings to Steve Rogers. 

_I need you. I need you here. They’re saying it was Barnes – your friend Barnes. You told me he died. You lied, didn’t you? You knew._

Tony deletes the text, again, pressing his knuckles to his forehead. _He won’t answer you anyways. You know that. He won’t come here._

Steve Rogers arrives in Vienna with zip-tie handcuffs around his wrists. That pleases Tony and horrifies him all at once – Steve deserved it, he could have called Tony – could have called in back-up before causing an absolute clusterfuck in Romania. But they shouldn’t have tied Captain America’s wrists together, how dare they do that? Tony hurries over to where Steve and Sam are being led into the building, pulling his Swiss-army knife from his pocket, sliding the blade under the ties around Steve’s wrists. His touch lingers on the back of Steve’s hand, brown eyes briefly searching for any indication on Steve’s face that he had missed Tony. That he had given the night they shared any further thought.

“What about me?” Sam grumbles, holding up his wrists. “Stark, a little help?”

Tony pulls his fingers away from Steve’s hand, his jaw set, knife slipping up under Sam’s ties and cutting them. 

“They took my shield,” Steve says casually, following after Tony as he sets off down the hall. “I’d like it back.”

“We can talk about that afterwards,” Tony mutters, opening the door to the small room with glass walls in the center of the control room. “I just need Steve for this one,” he says to Sam, putting out his hand to stop the other man from following after him. “You can talk to Nat about getting your stuff back.”

Sam looks at Steve uncertainly, like he doesn’t trust Tony to play nice. The bruised bite twinges. _If only you knew, bud._

Steve takes one look at the piece of paper on the desk in front of him, and his jaw sets, Tony wonders if it would be sharp enough to cut his fingertips. He wants to touch him, all the same. 

“Just need your signature, Cap,” Tony says, sitting in the chair across from Steve. He pulls out the pen case from his pocket, opening it on the table. The pens glint under the bright lights, and Tony feels like he’s the one in trouble, like he’s about to be interrogated. Outside of the glass walls, they are spared a few glances, but everyone is mostly going about their work. The room is soundproof, after all, there’s not much anyone can pick up on, unless they were skilled lip-readers. 

“Tony, you know that I -.”

“I know,” Tony says quickly, “I know, you can’t bring yourself to do this. You’re grieving too, I know. Somehow you lost the love of your life and gained your best friend back from the dead all in one day.” 

There’s a shift in Steve’s expression, a quick flash of betrayed rage, like both Peggy and Bucky Barnes were off limits to Tony. _She was my family, too,_ Tony thinks angrily.

“You’re bleeding,” Steve glances down at the base of Tony’s throat, a few beads of blood forming on the white fabric of the bandages. Tony’s fingers twitch against his thigh, his skin hot, he wants to button up the shirt – but he also wants Steve to reach over and slowly and methodically unbutton it.

“I got clipped by some shrapnel,” Tony says dismissively, extending his hand to Steve, pen trembling slightly in his grip. “Nothing I’ve not experienced before. The Accords, Steve.”

Steve leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. A muscle jumps in his forearm, Tony watches it, his mouth going dry. He forces himself to look into Steve’s eyes, to not get distracted by the almost healed cut on his face – the cut Tony had caused.

“I’m not signing it without provisions. Modifications.”

_A chance._ “There can be whatever modifications you want, Steve. Just sign it now – sign it now, and Romania gets swept under the rug. Barnes can get proper treatment in the States. I can let Wanda out, everything can go back to normal." 

Steve has the pen in his hand, though his fingers had avoided contact with Tony’s. _He regrets it._

“ _What_ about Wanda?”

Tony shifts in his seat, running his fingers through his hair, feeling as though he had just trodden on a landmine. It’s about to blow up, and he doesn’t have the time to reach down and deactivate it.

“Well, I kinda – confined her to the compound.” Steve’s blue eyes light up with fury, and Tony feels the explosion tear him apart. _Too late._ “She’s fine – I swear, she’s fine – it’s for her own safety.”

“God, Tony,” Steve snarls, “Just when I think you see things the right way -.”

“Oh, you have such a way with words – why didn’t you say that before I sucked your dick?” Tony’s hand strikes the table top, and Steve’s eyes widen in embarrassment, his cheeks flushing. “Or after? What was that to you, just a way to let off steam?”

“Tony,” Steve says sharply, looking out through the glass, worried that people are listening. 

“I sucked Captain America’s star spangled dick!” Tony shouts, the cords in his neck standing out, more blood trickling from the seams of the bandage. “And swallowed his red, white, and blue co-.” 

The pen, his father’s pen, strikes him dead between the eyes. Tony’s eyes water instantly, reaching up to feel his skin, the welt rising up on his forehead. 

Steve is already on his feet, moving towards the door, every muscle in his body tense. _He wants to hit me. Go ahead and do it, Cap. ‘Cause I’ll hit you back._

“I’d hate to break up the set,” Steve’s words drip with rage, disgust, disappointment. Tony's boyhood dreams of Captain America being proud of him die in some perverse, dark alleyway in the back of his mind - a painful death. 

Tony wipes the tears from his eyes as the door shuts behind him, his forehead throbbing. _I shouldn’t have lost my temper._ He pulls his sunglasses out of the breast pocket of his jacket, sliding them over his face, guarding his still watering eyes.

The pad of his thumb brushes over the words at the bottom of the page. Steven Grant Rogers. The line above the name is blank, unsigned. And then alarms start to blare, deafeningly loud. _Steve._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear to god this started as a one shot but at this point it is writing itself!!! help!!! i have no idea where this is going so come along for the ride i guess. also, tony, that was inappropriate to say in an office setting!!!


	4. Chapter 4

Tony is choking on his own blood. It coats the back of his throat, hot, thick, foul. He tastes vomit as it burns up his esophagus, mingling with the blood, and he takes a strangled breath. Worst of all is the pain in his chest, the red-hot pain that eclipses almost everything else. When the shield had struck his chest – Captain America’s shield, his _father’s_ shield – he had felt the crack of bone more than he had heard it. It was hard to hear much, with the blood rushing in his ears, he could barely hear Steve’s panting breaths as he struggled to climb off of Tony. 

It was his sternum that broke, he knew that. When he had designed it, to fill in the gaping hole in his chest cavity after the removal of his reactor and the shrapnel, he had fabricated a material very similar to bone. Now, as he struggles to roll onto his side in a dead suit, he wishes he had laced the material with steel -- made it unbreakable. When he lands on his side, after minutes of struggling that leaves him doused in sweat and shaking, he has a moment of relief before there’s another sharp pain in his chest. Blood sprays across the concrete, delicate snowflakes landing in his sweat soaked hair. _That was a rib stabbing into my lung._ He inhales, a reedy sound, his fingers scrabbling through his slick blood, trying to find purchase. _I’ve built myself a sarcophagus._ Tony laughs, gasps, sobs – he’s not sure, the sound is terrible. 

But not as terrible as Steve’s eyes, so dark that he could hardly make out the blue. Not as terrible as the thin line of Steve’s lips, pressed together so tightly they were almost blanched white. Not as terrible as the glint of Siberia’s bright white, snowy light catching on the front of Steve’s shield – its surface scoured with burn marks, scratches, Tony’s own blood. Steve had wrenched the helmet off of his head effortlessly, and Tony had stared up into his eyes, paralyzed. How could this be the very same man who had said his name so lowly, his lips brushing down Tony’s neck, across his shoulders, down his chest? _He’s going to take my head off._ The shield had moved down in slow motion, Tony had felt the muscles in his neck tense, as if preparing to fight back against vibranium and Steve’s raw strength – as if he had a chance.

The shield had crunched into the chest of his suit, had shattered the glass front of the reactor, and then the reactor itself. Shards of glass had made their way through the neoprene undersuit Tony wore, had sliced into his skin, sunk into his bones. His custom-made sternum had shattered like sugar work. _My father made that shield_ , he had gasped at Steve, the blood not yet at the back of his throat, not yet choking him.

Steve had looked back at him then, and Tony didn’t see pity or worry or guilt in his eyes. Captain America had shifted Bucky Barnes in his arms, helping the other man stay upright, and had looked at Tony with hatred in his eyes. The shield had clattered to the floor, a few feet away from Tony, and the two men had left him there to die.

Tony’s eyes fix on the shield now, reaching out again, crying out at the pain, his metal-encased fingers leaving scratches in the concrete as he drags himself to the shield. _I’ve got to have treasure with my sarcophagus, right_? Tony’s teeth grit together, blood seeping between them, staining white teeth – teeth he took such good care of – pink. One molar feels particularly loose as his tongue rubs against it, and though it should be the least of his worries, he can’t help but feel anger. The shield had crashed into the left side of his head, and then the right, and then the left – over and over again, his broken nose swelling against the HUD, ears ringing, and Steve Rogers had knocked one of his teeth loose. _Bastard._

Tony’s fingers finally grasp at the edge of the shield, it’s too heavy for him to pick up now, he had exhausted all of his strength dragging himself over to it. His father had exhibited more care for this shield than he had ever exhibited for his son. He had made replica after replica, though they were never right – he had displayed them in his office. One time, Tony must have been seven or eight, he had climbed on top of his father’s desk and hoisted one of those shields down from its place on the wall. Howard was supposed to be gone for the rest of the day, and Tony had people to save – not real people, of course, Tony didn’t have many friends in the neighborhood (none, in truth). On shaking legs, he had managed to climb down from the desk, his arms trembling at the weight of the shield held out in front of his chest. How could Captain America hold onto this so easily, sometimes with one(!) hand, his father had said. The smooth metal slipped from Tony’s sweaty fingers, and he gasped, ducking down to grab it. The shield was caught before it hit the floor, and Tony was eye level with the shining black leather of his father’s shoe. Before he could blink, the shield was brought up quickly, Tony saw his own reflection in the metal as it struck him in the face. Howard had picked him up by the collar of his shirt, the fabric nearly tearing in his hand, and had physically thrown him out of his office without another word. Maria Stark had found her son sobbing in the hallway, one of the framed pictures that had been hanging on the wall shattered on the floor beside him, having fallen once he had struck it. Her gentle fingers had brushed over his swollen eye, his aching cheek, and she had ushered him to the kitchen without looking back at the office door.

He rests his head against the edge of the shield, the metal cool – he should be cold, he realizes, droplets of his blood dripping out of the corner of his mouth and sliding down the curve of metal. He should be cold, because it is snowing, and he’s in a metal suit, and he’s dying.

He looks into the red metal, sees how unfocused his eyes are, and closes them. Yes, he has a lot of memories with this shield.

_His mother had spent weeks sewing his costume. Tony sits beside her at the table, tweaking his design for it._

_“Anthony, tesoro. I can’t keep adding these changes – Halloween is tomorrow.”_

_“But I want the blue to be brighter,” Tony whines, holding up the cerulean crayon, moving it closer to his mother’s eyes as if that will help her understand the predicament he’s in.”Cap’s suit is brighter.”_

_Maria Stark smiles at him, reaching out and running her fingers through his soft curls, attempting to bring order to the mess on the top of his head. No matter how many times she asked, Tony rarely brushed his hair – Jarvis would have to wrangle him, chasing the young boy around the Manor with a hairbrush, before finally cornering her giggling son and tidying up his hair. Tony was always presentable for dinner, when Howard was expected to attend._

_“Next year, we’ll make it brighter – we might have to invent a new shade of blue.”_

_Tony sighs, putting the crayon down, looking down at his drawing. Her son had faint artistic talent that she had attempted to nurture since he was old enough to pick up a pencil – though he is drawn more towards the piano than the sketchbook. The drawing of himself wearing Captain America’s suit is realistic, down to the slight smirk on his face that he often wore – unless Howard was around. Missing is the bruise that shadows his left eye, yellowing now with age, thankfully no longer the vibrant purple that had attracted looks at the grocery store as he had bounded up and down the aisles with restless energy. Howard had lost his temper that night – Howard always lost his temper around Tony. The cloth cowl Tony had insisted on wearing, white wings at the side of his head, will hide the worst of the bruise from the neighbors as he toddles up to their front door demanding candy._

_Tony is kicking his legs under the table, shifting it ever so slightly forward, and the sewing machine rattles in response._

_“Anthony, why don’t you go and get your shield? This is almost ready, you can try it on.”_

_Tony grins at her, showing the gap between his two front teeth that she finds ever so endearing. The boy will need braces, Howard had grumbled – imagine that face on the front of Newsweek, Jesus. Maria had ignored him the rest of the night for that comment – he’s just a boy. How many times has she said that to her husband?_

_Tony’s footsteps patter against the marble floor, then there are heavy stomps as he hops up the stairs two at a time. They had driven around the neighborhood the other day, Tony half out the window as he looked for the perfect garbage can lid. It had to be metal, he had told her, brown eyes dark with intensity. The shield had to be made out of metal – and Howard had scoffed when she had requested that he build their son one._

_Maria holds up the costume in front of her, the white star on the front of the chest bright compared to the dark navy behind it. Tony had looked at her in horror when she had asked about a utility belt – apparently, that was not standard regulation for Steve Rogers’ costume._

_The trash can lid clangs on the table top, and Maria peers over the edge of the fabric to look at her son – he already has the good sense to look guilty._

_“Anthony. How many times have I told you not to throw that?”_

_“Sorry, Mamma,” Tony says as he looks down at his socked feet. He inches towards her, reaching out for the costume. “I love it.”_

_Maria smiles warmly, helping Tony step into the costume, doing up the zipper in the back while he pulls the cowl over his head. The bruise is barely visible, but still she worries that people will see – Anthony will complain loudly if she puts makeup on him tonight. But she would rather hear him complain than hear the murmurs of her neighbors._

_“There,” Maria says as she slots the handle of the trashcan into Anthony’s waiting hand. She steps back so that she can look at him fully, fixing one of the white wings on the side of his head so that it stuck out a little more._

_“How do I look?” Tony asks her anxiously, shifting on his feet. “Is the shield okay? We ran out of red paint, so I didn’t get to put another coat on – Jarvis wouldn’t buy more,” Tony scowls._

_“You look perfect, tesoro. Let me go and get the camera, stay right there.”_

_“Mamma,” Tony whines as she walks away, “I don’t want a stupid picture.”_

_She doesn’t hear Howard stagger through the front door, but she does hear the loud clatter of Tony’s shield as it hits the floor. The camera dangles from her hand as she hurries out of the kitchen and back to the dining room, but it’s too late._

_Tony is sprawled across the floor, there’s a dent in the front of his trashcan shield from Howard’s fist, and Tony has his hands raised over his face defensively._

_“You don’t deserve to carry that shield,” Howard snarls, cocking his arm back. Maria grabs at it wildly, knowing that he’ll likely shove her aside, that she’ll have her own bruises to tend to._

_Cold metal fingers wrap around her throat and squeeze, her vision spotting at the edges. There’s a terrible crunch, and she can’t breathe at all. Anthony is screaming, brown eyes wide with horror, his cowl knocked back over his shoulders._

_Maria Stark falls at his feet, lifeless, her slender fingers curling next to her son’s foot. Tony jumps to his feet, staring at the man with the metal arm, with the black mask that covers the lower half of his face. He reaches out in an attempt to stop him, but he is soon doused with his father’s blood, gagging at the metallic taste as it lands on his tongue. Howard Stark’s head is rendered to a bloody pulp, bits of brain – the brain he was ever so proud of – squelch against the marble floor that Maria Stark kept so polished._

_Behind the man with the metal arm, Tony can make out another man in the doorway. He holds his own shield, shinier and far more realistic than Tony’s. The blue uniform is brighter than Tony’s costume, and tears darken the fabric of Tony’s outfit as he stares at Steve Rogers. Captain America had watched his parents die, and he had done nothing._

* * *

Someone must be sitting on his chest. _That’s a pretty fucked up thing to do, sit on the chest of a dead body. Get the fuck off of me._ There is no other explanation for the weight there, it’s almost like the entire globe is resting between his lungs, pushing down on him. He tries to lift his hand to touch his chest, but his arm is heavy too – which makes sense, because as a dead person, he really shouldn’t be able to move at all.

His eyes open, though they struggle for a moment, because honestly – a corpse opening its eyes? It’s bright, there are fluorescent lights above him, and natural light spilling in from a window. He gasps, his throat aching – the telltale sign of a ventilator tube recently removed. _Hospital._ Tony hates hospitals, and just like that, he can hear the dull ringing of the vitals monitor sounding the alarm – blood pressure rising, pulse racing.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, freckled skin, waves of copper hair. Vanilla, floral notes – _Givenchy. Bought it for her last anniversary. Wore it ever since._

“Pep,” Tony’s voice grates, her fingertips brushing over his jaw, and the vitals monitor silences as he relaxes. 

“You’re okay, Tony,” her face looms over his, shadows under her green eyes. “You’re in a hospital in Berlin.” 

_Hospital in Berlin._ The last time he had been in a hospital in Berlin, there had been a new piece of machinery in his chest. _No._ He manages to lift his right arm, trembling fingers pressing against the front of his hospital gown – and he doesn’t feel metal and glass like he did last time, but the rough fabric of sutures. 

Pepper catches his wrist, gently pulling his hand away before he causes some damage. “You had to have your sternum replaced. It was cracked in two. It’s lucky you keep such excellent documentation on your health, Mr. Stark,” Pepper gives him a tired smile. “They were able to craft a new one from your blueprints. You had a punctured lung, too, and that will take time to heal. A few cracked ribs. A concussion.” 

“Pepper.” Tony says, his fingers folding against the palm of her hand. “Pepper – he killed my mom. He killed my mom.”

She leans forward, recognizing that Tony is about to throw himself out of the bed, his eyes lighting up with a fury that really shouldn’t be possible given the amount of painkillers he’s on. Her hands press against his shoulders, holding him down, and he’s sobbing – Pepper looks over her shoulder, wishing she had someone here to help her. But Rhodey is in New York, recovering from his own hospital stay, trying out his new cybernetic braces. Happy is holding down the fort for Stark Industries, a terrifying thought. Steve Rogers is, well – he had been the one to cause this carnage. 

“Shh, Tony. Sweetheart, please, breathe.” Her fingers card through his hair, slender and soft while Steve’s had been thick and rough from work. Guilt burns almost as bright as the pain in his chest, but he shouldn’t feel guilty – it has been almost half a year since they had broken up. But he does feel guilty, she still wears the perfume he had bought for her, she still touches him with the same tenderness – old habits die hard.

Pepper is pulled away by a nurse, and Tony doesn’t struggle much as a sedative is injected into his IV, though he’d really rather not be impaired – Pepper needs to know details, but not the nitty gritty. If he doesn’t tell someone the truth behind the night of December 16th, 1991 – he’ll go insane. 

His world is hazy now, they must’ve given him the good stuff, because there are lights, and copper strands of hair, and worried green eyes – freckles, endless freckles. He had sworn to her, as she giggled breathlessly beneath him, that he would count every freckle on her body. He’d gotten somewhere close to 600 before getting distracted – and would never have the ability to count them again. 

“You know how many times I was the keynote speaker at drunk driving seminars?” Tony’s words are slurred, but understandable. “You know, Pepper – I know you know.” 

“In the years I’ve known you?” Pepper cocks her head, her fingers gently trailing over the back of his hand, mindful of the IV needle. “At least twelve.”

“Yup. I think the number is closer to fifteen. All because of my parents – all because I thought my dad… killed the both of them by being drunker than ever. His BAC had been off the charts. I never dug into it… Always believed what I was told… Thought the autopsy photos would tear me apart – they probably would, too. So, Dad drove drunk, Mom died and he died, too – and I was left alone. I give money every year to a fund for children who lost their parents due to drunk driving. I rail against it whenever I have the opportunity to in the press. And he probably wasn’t even drunk.” His laughter is raspy, and he regrets laughing at all because his lungs flare with pain. “Christ.”

Pepper keeps her eyes fixed on his, though she’s worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

“They were murdered, is what I’m trying to say. By – you remember Steve’s friend?” _Steve, I never call him Steve around her._ “Barnes?”

“The one who fell off the train?” Tony’s eyebrows raise, and Pepper shrugs. “Steve and I have talked about more than just you and the Avengers, Tony.”

“Yeah, that one. He worked for HYDRA, apparently – was an assassin for them. Did a damn good job, too, assassinating my parents. Brainwashed, Steve said – not aware of what he was doing. But Steve knew. This whole time, Steve knew that my parents were killed. And he knew who did it, and he knew that Barnes was alive.”

Pepper takes all of this information in stride, though what Tony says next makes her blink.

“And I slept with him – like an absolute idiot.” He reaches up with his free hand to run it over his eyes, brushing aside tears. “Oh, Pep, I was an idiot. I slept with him, he lied to me, and he didn’t even give a damn.” 

Pepper kisses the back of his hand softly, breathing out a sigh. “Oh, Tony.”

_Oh, Tony. You idiot._

“You love him.” 

Tony’s eyes widen, and he draws his hand away from Pepper’s lips, shifting on the bed. “No I don’t,” he snaps, “I don’t.”

Pepper gives him a long, knowing look. “I know what you look like when you’re in love, Tony, in case you’ve forgotten.” 

“It doesn’t matter now,” Tony says quietly, looking away from her. “It doesn’t matter – because – because he nearly killed me. And he would have done it, I think, if I hadn’t…” _Looked in his eyes._ “And now he’s a criminal.” Tony blinks. “Where’s the shield?”

“In my hotel room,” Pepper says as she presses her hands together. “There was – blood.” 

“Mine,” Tony says, feeling it ooze out of his chest – the endless cuts – he must be imagining it. 

“Mr. Stark?” The sedative wielding nurse is back, though she’s holding a phone instead of a syringe. “How are you feeling?” She doesn’t wait for his response. “Usually, I wouldn’t allow phone calls, but the man on the other end says it’s urgent.” 

Hope blooms in his chest, and Tony wants to rip it out like a weed – wants to tear it to shreds with his fingers. _How could you want to talk to the man who almost killed you? Who lied to you every time you looked into his eyes? You’re pathetic, Stark._

“I can take it, if you want,” Pepper senses the conflict within him, the anger and hope sparring desperately.

“No, Pep,” Tony says, his voice sounding hollow as he reaches for the phone.

Steve’s voice is distant, like he’s shouting into one tin can, his voice carried along the string to the other. “Tony, are you there?”

Tony says nothing, closing his eyes, Steve’s face floats waxy with rage above him. 

“Tony, I’m sorry – I’m so sorry, you have to understand. Buck – he’s a part of my life, Tony – I couldn’t let you… I’m sorry. Are you alright? When I called in to Ross’ line, I didn’t know if they would send people fast enough – I wanted to come back, but I had to go – do you understand? I had to, otherwise…” 

_And what if I died, Steve? Is staying out of jail worth that much to you?_ Tony’s grip on the phone tightens, his jaw set. 

“I’m sorry, Tony – I love you.” 

_No._ Tony hangs up, feeling like he’s going to be sick. He leans over the side of the bed and vomits, dimly aware of the fact that he’s ruined Pepper’s shoes and that there’s blood in his vomit. _Not the type of love I want._ The vitals monitor is blaring again, and his world is slipping away from him, silky like Steve’s hair between his fingers. _It’s probably the type of love I deserve._


	5. Chapter 5

He could be holding a bomb, he idly thinks, as he turns the FedEx package over in his hands. It would be a cruel twist of fate, but people are still quite angry at Iron Man and the Avengers. The mess at the airport in Germany definitely didn’t win them any fans. Or, his finger slips under the lip of the padded envelope, it could be anthrax. That wouldn’t be a first for Tony Stark, but he usually has his mail screened. The label on the front of the package hadn’t given him any indication of what’s inside, the letters had been typed, completely impersonal.

“Birthday present?” Rhodey asks from where he’s sat at the table, rubbing idly at his sore abdomen – he’s able to walk with the braces, staggering steps, but it definitely is a new demand on the muscles of his core to hold himself upright.

“Bit early for that.” Tony peers into the package, he sees some square object at the base of it, and a handwritten letter. _I need to read this privately._ He holds the package down by his side, looking over at Rhodey casually. “I’m gonna go into the office. Are you good out here?”

“You’ll hear me fall if I’m not,” Rhodey replies with a wry grin, waving his hand. “Go on, go on. Give a shout if it’s something poisonous.” 

The letter might as well be poisonous. It’s completely impersonal, and Tony reads over it twice before setting it aside, swallowing back bile as it threatens to rise up out of his stomach. It’s the type of letter you would give to your coworker, not the type of letter you would come up with for someone you supposedly loved. Captain America’s shield strikes him in the chest again, and he closes his eyes against the pain – the office phone ringing, and ringing. The phone call with Ross doesn’t make him feel any better, in fact, it’s just another layer of betrayal. Steve had broken his buddies out of the Raft – fine. But who was going to catch the real heat for it? Tony, of course it would be Tony.

“I’m watching you, Stark,” Ross had threatened. “If I think you’re an inch out of line, I’ll throw you in a cell to rot.” 

Possessing the flip phone that now sits on the glass top of the desk is probably more than an inch out of line. _Is it treason?_ Tony picks up the outdated piece of technology with trembling hands – trust Steve to somehow find a model that Tony is pretty sure ended production at least three years ago. It’s bulky plastic, but rugged – and Tony has a feeling the line is more than secure, it is likely untraceable. 

There’s only one contact in the list, Tony stares at the name and the string of numbers beneath it. Steve, it says – not Steve Rogers, or Captain America – but Steve. Perhaps… Tony reaches up and rubs at the edge of his jaw, scratching through the neatly trimmed hair. _Maybe the letter was from Captain America to Iron Man – in case it was intercepted. But this phone is from Steve to Tony._

Tony frowns at the blinking exclamation point at the top of the screen, squinting at it. He thinks it’s an exclamation point, anyways, hard to tell with the complete lack of clarity the screen has – _this thing is just one pixel. Christ, Steve, you might as well try to kill me again._ He laughs, though he shouldn’t, and there’s no humor in it. Lately, he’s been self-medicating in an attempt to stop the nightmares. Steve would murmur his name in his ear while he slept, his lips would burn against his throat, and then he would slam the shield into Tony’s chest over and over again until he woke up shaking and sweating – tears burning in his eyes. No amount of scotch seemed to do the trick, nor vodka.

He exits out of the contact list, opening up the main menu and clicking on missed calls – assisted by the exclamation mark beside the icon.

**Missed Call – Steve, Yesterday, 2:30 PM**

**Missed Call – Steve, Wednesday, 2:30 PM**

**Missed Call – Steve, Tuesday, 2:30 PM.**

The flip phone vibrates violently in Tony’s hand, and the missed call screen is wiped away as Steve’s name lights up the screen. Incoming call, Steve, 2:30 PM. _Don’t you dare pick up the phone, Stark._

Tony is an addict, though, to many things. Alcohol, chiefly. In the 90s, a smattering of drugs. Now, he wants to hear Steve say his name – needs to hear Steve say his name.

_Did you know?_

_I didn’t know it was him._

**_Liar._ **

Tony accepts the call, holding the ( _piece of shit_ ) cell phone up to his ear. 

“Tony?” Unlike the call in the hospital, Steve’s voice is crisp, deep, and Tony hates the rush of desire that moves through his body all the way down to his toes. At least there’s fear, there, too – and out of the corner of his eye he can see Steve’s hand clenched into a fist. 

“I’m hanging up,” Tony says dully, pulling the phone away from his ear.

“No, don’t.” Now it is Steve begging, and there’s a nice change – because Tony had spent the last couple of months begging him to come to his senses, to sign the goddamn Accords and be done with it. 

“I have nothing to say to you – well, actually, I guess I do. Fuck you, Rogers. Do you know how much more difficult you’ve made my life? Why couldn’t you just leave them there? Ross thinks I had a hand in it – and maybe I did, because I’m talking to you now, aren’t I? I should give him this phone. Let them find you and throw you in a prison for life.” 

“You wouldn’t do that.” _Oh, I hate you._ Tony’s jaw clicks as his teeth clench together, and he reaches up to knuckle at his forehead, knowing that the headache he’ll have after this will be incapacitating. Steve is right, though – Tony wouldn’t do that. And if Ross and a bunch of Marines barged through the front door of the compound right now, Tony would use his last moments of freedom to wipe the phone clean.

“I need to see you, Tony.” There’s movement on Steve’s line, like he’s walking somewhere, somewhere where he can talk without being overheard. “I need to make sure that you’re alright.”

“You probably should have done that in Siberia.” Tony’s voice is flat, words clipped – he should hang up, but he can’t. 

“There’s an address in the envelope – you’ll have to cut it open, I slipped it between the padding. Meet me there, Tony. We can talk.”

“We’re talking now,” Tony says, shouldering the phone against his ear as his hands move to rip the package to shreds. A small square of paper flutters to the floor, and Tony seizes it.

“No, we’re not. I mean really talk, Tony. I want to explain.”

“And you can’t do that over the phone?” Tony reads over the address, frowning. _Scotland? Christ, the last time I was in Scotland, must’ve been… That energy conference in Edinburgh – that redheaded guy in the kilt. That was a nice night._

“You keep threatening to hang up on me,” Steve teases, and he doesn’t have the right to do that – not after the damage he’s inflicted on Tony, both physically and… “I’m serious. Give me a chance to explain, to apologize. I just – need to see you. You don’t have to see me again, afterwards, if you don’t want to – but…”

_But you would want to. This is a death sentence. If Ross catches me even contemplating this idea, he’d do more than throw me in jail. When was the last time the United States of America executed someone for treason?_

“Fine.” Tony can’t believe the word comes out of his mouth, and hope is growing in his chest again, no matter how many times he plucks it out. “Fine. But I’m not – I…”

“It’s okay, Tony,” Steve murmurs, his voice soft – he had said the same thing in Tony’s ear, after… “I’ll see you there.”

Tony hangs up, throwing the phone onto the desk, getting to his feet so fast that his head spins. He reaches out and steadies himself, closing his eyes against the vertigo and the nausea.

Rhodey looks up at him as he walks back into the gym, and he instantly can tell that something is up. 

“What’s gotten into you?”

 _Captain America, believe it or not._ Tony laughs giddily, covering his hands with his face. “Christ, Rhodey, I think I’m going crazy. I really think I’ve lost it. One too many hard blows to the head.” 

Rhodey cautiously gets to his feet, grabbing at the edge of the table for support. He makes his way over to Tony, his hand grabbing at his shoulder, squeezing. 

“You do look crazy, Tony. Do you need to sit down? You’re all… pale. And sweaty, which is gross.”

“I have to go somewhere for a day or two,” Tony says, though his world comes back into focus at the squeeze of Rhodey’s hand, and he’s grateful – so grateful. Rhodey is his best friend, and he’s never deserved him. He knows, were he to open his mouth and tell Rhodey that he’s meeting up with Captain America, that he would find himself locked in his bedroom for at least a week. _Because this is a bad idea. A stupid idea. A way to get yourself killed. But I have to go. I need to go._

“You’re not gonna tell me where, are you?” Rhodey sounds resigned, not even disappointed. “Are you doing something stupid?” 

“Yes,” Tony says, shrugging out of Rhodey’s grip – he has to pack. The address Steve’s neat script had written out seems to be residential. He’ll scrutinize it on the flight there. “But I’ll try not to break my previous record of incredible stupidity.” 

“Which one is that?” Rhodey asks lightly, watching him walk away. “There are just so many.” He laughs as Tony flicks him off without looking back, but his expression turns troubled – whenever Tony kept something from him, it was usually bad news. It was usually life threatening.

* * *

Driving on the opposite side of the road is quite the learning curve, Tony realizes, as he almost dies twice on his long drive up from Edinburgh to Inverness. At Inverness, he stops at a café to get a coffee, hoping that the caffeine will jolt his brain into working properly. It must not be working properly because here he is, driving to the cottage that Steve wants to meet at – a cottage that is secluded, it had taken Tony two minutes of rapid clicking the arrow down the road to find the next dwelling on Google Maps, at least five miles away

 _What if this is a trap?_ Tony chokes on his coffee, spraying some on the table – the elderly woman behind the counter looks at him and he waves his hand casually. Though it trembles – and the coffee has stained his red cashmere sweater. He wipes up the mess he’s made on the table, and wipes his sweater though it’s a lost cause. _It could be a trap. I could step inside the cottage, and Barnes could be there – with a swanky new arm. He could choke the life out of me just like he did to Mamma. And Steve could watch. I should get in the car and go home._

He gets in the car, and keeps driving, leaning forward over the wheel to see the road better – his jetlag is catching up with him, and the fog rolling in over the heather is fitting but annoying in his quest to make it to the cottage in one piece.

It is as isolated as Tony had feared – a stout, stony looking home. There’s a grey car parked in front of it, much less ostentatious than Tony’s rented red Jaguar, and there’s smoke pouring out of the chimney. _Honey, I’m home._ Tony’s fingers card through his hair, tugging sharply. If caffeine won’t jumpstart his brain, perhaps pain will. 

The front door to the cottage opens, and Steve Rogers steps out. Tony stares at him between parted fingers, through the rain spattered windshield – drinks him in like he’s desperate for water – or whiskey, he hopes Steve has brought whiskey.

Steve is wearing a scarf – _no, that’s not right._ Tony leans forward more, the steering wheel pressing against his sore chest. Steve has a beard, much darker than the hair on his head, it makes him look different. More intimidating, older, more dangerous.

Tony opens the door, stepping out of the car, his shoes crunching against the gravel. Steve walks out to meet him, slowly, like he’s afraid Tony will bolt at any sudden movement. _I probably would. Should get back in the car and drive home. This is dangerous._

“Tony.” Steve stops a few paces in front of him, keeping his distance. He reaches out a hand towards him, and then lowers it to his side.

Tony stands behind the car door, using it as a shield. There are shadows under Steve’s eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping, and his face is drawn in. He’s wearing a black sweater tucked into grey trousers, and Tony’s eyes roam over the broad expanse of his chest, despite his best intentions.

_I hope you’ve been having nightmares._

“Captain,” Tony says, tilting his head to the side. “You wanted to talk?”

Steve steps forward, sighing in exasperation. “Tony, it’s cold out. Come inside, I’ve got a fire going.”

Tony’s fist lands firmly on the right side of Steve’s face, knuckles a fiery blip of pain, but he feels triumphant satisfaction as Steve’s head whips to the side. Tony’s left hand rises to land another blow, but Steve catches it, his grip tight.

“I deserve that,” Steve says, his thumb idly rubbing over the back of Tony’s knuckles. “I do. More than that, Tony. But please, come inside if you’re going to kick my ass. It’s cold out.”

Tony pulls his hand away from Steve’s grip, slamming the car door shut. _Wish I could just put my head between it and have Steve slam the door._

“When did you get here?” Tony’s voice is sharp as he follows Steve up to the door, his hands deep in his pockets. One tap of a finger to the screen of the smart-watch on his wrist, and he would have a gauntlet – with enough power to blast Steve’s head off. _Just in case._

“Last night,” Steve steps back, holding the door open for Tony. _What a gentleman. Where was this chivalry when you tried to kill me?_

The cottage is cozy – there’s a small sitting room with two armchairs, no television, though. The burning wood in the fireplace crackles, which is far too perfect – everything about the place seems perfect. The door to the bathroom is open, which is great, should Tony need to run inside to vomit into the toilet. The door to the one bedroom, however, is closed. 

Tony stands in front of the fireplace, gazing down at the flames, the smoke burning his eyes. 

“Tony…” Steve stands in the doorway to the kitchen, looking at him – even with his back to Steve, Tony can feel his eyes on him. “Can I – uh – get you something to drink?”

“I didn’t come here to drink.” Tony rests his hand against the mantel, the stone cool despite the heat of the fire. “But I’ll have whiskey, if you’ve got it.”

Steve tsks slightly, and Tony’s fingers curl against the stone – by what right is Steve judging him? Or did Steve think that he drank too much? Did Steve worry that Tony was an alcoholic? _Newsflash, pal, I was born and bred to drink. I’ve got expensive taste, too, courtesy of Howard Stark._

“It’s Glenfiddich,” Steve says quietly, offering Tony the glass. 

“Bit of a light pour, there, Rogers,” Tony looks at him over the rim of the cup, relaxing as warmth travels down his throat.

“You didn’t come here to drink.”

_Bastard._

Steve is standing too close to him, his presence is just as intoxicating as the whiskey. When Steve stands too close to him, Tony makes mistakes. Taking another sip of whiskey, he sidles away from the fireplace, leaning back against the wall by the bookshelf.

Steve takes a seat in the armchair closest to him, his hands on his knees, looking at Tony intently.

“How long were you in the hospital for?”

The question catches Tony off guard, it seems too personal. “You mean, how long did you put me in the hospital for, Cap?”

Steve winces and then reaches up to rub at the swelling skin on the right side of his face, no doubt sore from Tony’s punch. 

“You cracked my sternum clean in two. I had a collapsed lung, too. Guess my ribs weren’t as strong as I thought they were. Nearly choked on my own blood, if you must know.” The glass is empty, and Tony wonders if Steve would try to stop him if he went to the kitchen to fill it again. _But if I have to make a quick escape, I don’t want to drive drunk._

“I’m sorry.” Steve’s eyes meet his, and his apology seems genuine, but it doesn’t make Tony feel much better.

“How’s your murder buddy?”

Now it is Tony’s turn to catch Steve off guard, and he watches as the other man’s expression turns guarded, muscles shifting below his beard as he grits his teeth.

“Bucky – he – I had to… Back in the ice. Until we can undo what they did to him.”

“Good,” Tony says quietly. “Good. Hope he stays frozen forever." 

“Tony,” Steve shifts in the armchair, uncomfortable with how the conversation is progressing. “You tried to kill him.”

“He killed my parents!” Tony’s voice cracks as he shouts, and he stops himself before he can lob the empty glass at Steve’s self-righteous head. 

Steve covers his face with his hands for a moment, his shoulders hunching forward. _Stress or guilt? Regret for having me come all the way out here?_

“I thought that you had come to terms how they died, Tony – I didn’t want… To upset you more, to… I thought it was a kindness, I really did. I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

“How can you say that when you left me for dead in Siberia? Really, Steve, how can those words physically form in your mouth when you know that you were a thought away from beheading me? We both know it.” 

Steve’s hands drop away, and he looks at Tony, his expression one of tortured guilt. “You were going to kill him, Tony. I had to stop you – Bucky is a part of me – and I know I can help him get back to how I knew him. I couldn’t let you take that chance away from me, even if…” 

“He killed my mom,” Tony mutters, looking down at the glass in his hand. _I need a drink. I need a drink. God, I need a drink._

Steve tries a different tact. “What if I tried to kill Rhodey?” 

_I’d kill you before you got the chance._

Tony glowers at him, and then decides that consequences be damned, he needs more whiskey. Steve follows him to the kitchen, a pace behind Tony, but the closeness makes his head swim. He’s exhausted – he should have spent the night in Edinburgh, should have made Steve wait another day – oh, to make Captain America squirm and doubt himself. But Tony is too weak to allow himself that sort of empty victory – no, Tony had come running at Steve’s beck and call. Whiskey sloshes over the edge of the glass, Tony blinking down at it in bewilderment, liquid still pouring from the bottle and onto the countertop. 

Steve’s large hand rests over his, easing up on the bottle. His warm breath causes the hair on the back of Tony’s neck to stiffen.

“Expensive stuff, Tony.” Steve’s lips press against his skin, his beard a newfound sensation that makes Tony shudder involuntarily. Tony’s free hand grasps at the edge of the counter for support. “You’re exhausted,” he murmurs, nosing the brown curls at the nape of his neck. “Did you drive here straight from the airport?” 

Tony feels as though he’s on fire, thrown onto a stake to burn as punishment for his own stupidity. He’s damning himself, he knows, as he leans back against Steve’s chest. Damning himself as he closes his eyes, the bottle thudding against the counter top, Steve’s hand slipping up under the hem of his sweater. _Damnation is sweeter than I thought._

The pad of Steve’s thumb brushes over the risen base of the new scar on his chest – five long inches of sutures recently removed. Tony’s heart beats wildly, he wonders if it will beat so fast that the muscle will just tear itself to pieces. Steve’s lips brush below his ear, his breath a sigh. 

“I’m so sorry, Tony.”

The hand on his chest is the hand that caused the injury to begin with. The very same fingers that brush over his heart are those that had curled over the edge of the shield and brought it down with a shout against Tony’s reactor. The hand of his lover, the hand of his executioner. The hand of a liar, in the end, that’s all that matters. 

Tony pushes himself forward into the counter, the edge of it painful against his hip, and he grabs Steve’s arm and pulls his hand out from under his sweater. Inches away from him, and then feet – another room, as he hurries towards the fireplace.

Steve follows him, slower this time, more space between them.

Tony’s back rests against the cool, smooth wall. He wants to ruck up his sweater and press his bare skin to it in an effort to cool himself down – but he thinks that will just rile the two of them up more. He can’t afford to make another mistake. _My whole life is mistake after mistake._

“Tony…”

“Don’t Tony me,” he snaps, pointing at Steve, inwardly wishing he had the gauntlet on – the hum of the repulsor would keep him at bay. “When you Tony me, it makes me…”

His fingertip presses into Steve’s chest, the fabric of his sweater soft. Tony’s finger brushes down slowly, watching Steve’s skin flush pink, his eyes on Tony’s lips.

“I don’t know where we go from here, Steve,” Tony’s finger falls away, his hand back at his side. Steve has him up against the wall, there’s enough space for him to squeeze away, but it would be tight. He lets Steve inch closer, lets Steve’s hands skim up his sides. 

“Does it really matter?” Steve asks as he bows his head, pressing soft kisses to Tony’s chest, each one an apology. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Tony closes his eyes as he tips his head back against the wall with a thud, pressed up against it and Steve, pinned. _No way out now._ “God, I don’t…” His fingers thread through Steve’s hair, it has a bit more length now, sighing as Steve’s beard scrapes against his throat.

“You’re here, with me,” Steve supplies, his lips pressing against Tony’s, Tony’s hands slipping from his hair to wrap around him fully. “Here with me,” he repeats, feeling Tony tense as Steve’s hand moves between his thighs. 

“Steve,” he murmurs, his lips parting at the brush of Steve’s tongue.

_This is insanity. This is a mistake. This is… God, this is good._

Steve’s beard burns his skin, and Tony finally understands Pepper’s disquiet when he had threatened to shave his goatee. He grinds into Steve’s hand, the friction sending curls of pleasure up from the pit of his stomach, wrapping around him, holding him in place.

He opens his eyes, looking into Steve’s – Steve, whose hand is unzipping his jeans. Steve, who had left him in the cold to die. 

Tony fists his fingers against Steve’s broad back as Steve’s hand squeezes between his legs, and his knees go weak. 

_That same hand tried to kill you._

Tony’s pulse races, arousal and panic – he needs to get out, now, needs to get away. His fist strikes Steve on the ear, Steve’s hand pulling away, his teeth biting sharply at Tony’s bottom lip in surprise. 

“Get off, get off,” Tony’s voice is ragged, his hands at the front of Steve’s sweater, shoving him away forcefully.

“Tony, wait,” Steve rubs at his ear, the skin red – he reaches out with his other hand, his fingers brushing against Tony’s back as he hurries to the front door. “No, Tony, don’t go.” 

The Jaguar’s engine revs wildly, Tony throwing the gearshift into reverse and backing out without even checking that the way is clear. Steve stands at the foot of the drive, watching Tony speed off, wondering where they go from here. 

* * *

Steve wakes with a start, his heart pounding in his chest, Tony’s blood still warm on his hands. Tony had said his name with his dying breath, his blood bright red as it bubbled on his lips. Steve holds his head in his hands, breathing in deeply, feeling the sweat cool on his skin. He had rented the cottage for three nights, naively hopeful that Tony would stay with him – that he wouldn’t be sleeping alone in this bed. 

The flip phone on the nightstand buzzes, and Steve’s hand shoots out to grab it – there is only one person who would be calling him.

“Tony?” Steve’s panic from his nightmare fades, Tony is alive. “Are you back home?” 

Tony’s voice is flat, emotionless. “November 10th, Paris. Les Bougresses, on rue de Jarente. We have a reservation for 7.”


	6. Chapter 6

The last time Steve had been in Paris, it had been occupied by the Nazis. The streets had been dark, the people had kept their apprehensive eyes fixed on their feet, and Steve had only stayed in the city overnight before moving on. He hadn’t even seen the Eiffel Tower. Today, though, he had made up for lost time – the view from the top of the Eiffel Tower had been stunning, but he would much rather have been standing there with Tony beside him. The Louvre had been even better, Steve had only left because he needed to make his way to the restaurant where he was to meet Tony. _Tony._

Steve pulls his brown leather jacket tighter around his shoulders, thankful for the inner wool lining – as the sun began to set, a chill had turned the breeze biting. He hadn’t spoken to Tony since Scotland – though he had picked up the flip phone time and time again, just wanting to hear the other man’s voice. But there had been an underlying message for him when Tony had told him when and where they were meeting, and the message was to not contact Tony again. They hadn’t discussed rules for – well, whatever this is – but Steve has a feeling that rules are coming.

He looks up at the entryway to Les Bougresses, blue eyes scanning over the gold cursive letters painted over the black background of the sign. He had expected something upscale, some restaurant where he would feel out of place while Tony would be completely in his element. He had been wrong – and he can picture Tony’s vindicated smile now, as he lingers in front of the restaurant. He peers in through the window, trying to make out Tony inside, the watch on his wrist ticking away. 6:50 – earlier than Tony had said – but Steve wanted to make a good impression. He feels like an idiot – while the restaurant is not as high end as he thought it would be, he still feels underdressed. Beneath his brown leather jacket he wears a plain white t-shirt, which he had tucked into his jeans. His duffel bag is slung over his shoulder still, he hadn’t bothered getting a hotel room just yet – he had so much that he wanted to do in Paris, after all, and if everything went south at this dinner Steve knew that he wouldn’t want to spend another minute in this city. He looks to the right of the restaurant, but the café next door is closed – wildly, he wonders where the nearest public restroom is. He could dive into one, change into something more appropriate – he **knows** that Tony will be wearing a tailored suit. Just the thought of Tony in a suit makes his mouth dry, his heartbeat picking up in his chest. So many buttons for Steve to undo… 

Tony looks up from the table when the bell above the door jingles, as he had been doing for the past fifteen minutes. His neck aches from the sudden jerk of his head up from the menu, but this time, he’s rewarded with the image of Steve’s bulking frame in the doorway. He still has that beard, though it’s thicker now, and Tony idly wonders how it would feel against the inside of his thigh. He reaches up, adjusting the knot of his striped blue tie at his throat, the silk comforting against his fingers. _I feel like an idiot._ He had dressed up for this, had a new suit fitted for this very occasion. The Bvlgari watch on his wrist is the icing on the cake, he had dressed to the nines and Steve is wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket. A leather jacket that is stretched tightly across his broad shoulders, keeping him warm. _I’ve got another way to keep you warm, Steve._

Tony raises his hand, waving slightly, and Steve grins when he sees him. He regards the supersoldier over the edge of his wine glass, wondering why the hell he had a duffel bag with him. _Probably to kill you – maybe Barnes is hiding inside. He shrunk him down with some secret Wakanda-tech. Pocket assassin._ He takes a large gulp of wine to steel himself, because as Steve approaches him, he starts to think (again) that this is a mistake.

“Tony,” Steve says, his voice warm, the chair scraping against the floor as he pushes it back. Steve’s bag lands on the floor beside him, and his calf brushes against Tony’s as he makes himself comfortable in the chair. Tony sets his wine glass down, the thud of it hitting the table sounding ever so loud.

“Your hair’s different,” Tony says, cocking his head as he takes inventory. “Not getting a lot of sun, Steve? I hear Wakanda has beautiful weather year round, so I’m surprised.”

If Steve is surprised to hear that Tony knows exactly where the ex-Avengers are hiding out, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he reaches up and brushes his fingers through his dark hair, it’s long enough now that he’s slicked it back with something. Tony’s fingers twitch against his thigh – if it’s not as blonde anymore, at least it will still be soft, right?

“I dyed it,” Steve admits with a grimace, looking up as a waiter appears at his side with a bottle of wine.

“I ordered for us,” Tony says, his foot knocking against Steve’s under the table. “It’s prix fixe – do you like red wine?”

“I trust your taste, Tony,” Steve says as he lifts up the glass, breathing in before taking a sip. Tony’s eyes darken slightly as he watches Steve’s throat bob, his fingers digging into the meat of his thigh. _Behave._

“You look better,” Steve says, and then blushes. “I mean, you looked great when I last saw you – but you… look like you’ve gotten more sleep.” 

Tony turns his head, giving Steve a sardonic smile, the faint bruises on his neck now visible over the collar of his dress shirt. Steve’s eyes widen slightly, his jaw tensing, and his voice is low when he speaks.

“Who did that to you?” 

Tony shrugs his shoulders with such fluidity that Steve once again wonders how a man could be so tense and so relaxed all at once. 

“Secretary Ross and a few lackeys made an unexpected house call. Don’t worry, Cap, I gave as good as I got.” 

Steve looks over his shoulder, wary of being overheard. “You shouldn’t call me that.”

“No one is listening to us, Steve,” Tony snorts, nudging his silverware in an attempt to keep his hands occupied. “If we were speaking French, that would be another story – but I picked this place because I knew we wouldn’t be… Recognized, or interrupted. Anyways, Ross won’t be making another appearance, at least, not without my invitation. He caught me off guard, otherwise I wouldn’t have been so easy to strangle.”

Steve looks down at the menu, a flush spreading up his neck, and Tony knows why he can’t meet his gaze. He gently knocks his foot against Steve’s again.

“Hey,” Tony’s voice lowers, hand reaching out for Steve’s, but then he pauses and pulls it back to his side of the table. “Yeah, I’m the official whipping boy for the Avengers, but someone’s gotta do it, right? Not like you’ve left me much of a choice." 

“You could retire.” Steve shifts in his chair. “You know that you could retire.”

“I guess I could. But where would that leave the world? We’re already without Captain America – should I deprive the good people Iron Man, too?” He grins at Steve, that cocksure smile that infuriates him and attracts him all the same. 

“So…” Steve says after a pause, another sip of wine – it’s dry, and not entirely pleasant, but he’s never been one for wine. “How’s the kid?” 

Tony’s eyes light up, and he gives Steve a bright smile. “Peter – you remember him?”

“Kid dressed up in a onesie, shooting webs from his wrists. Kinda hard to forget.”

“Oh, he’s great,” Tony is still smiling, and Steve never wants that smile to leave him. “I’ve sort of – taken him under my wing – as my protégé? You know, like Batman and Robin. He’s sorta my Robin. Brilliant kid. Smarter than me.” 

“God, that’s dangerous,” Steve grins, “Are you calling him Iron Spider yet?”

“Come on,” Tony scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest, “I’m not that egocentric.”

The waiter is at Tony’s side in a moment, and Steve watches in quiet admiration as Tony converses in rapid-fire French. There are a few things about Tony that he’s jealous of: his confidence, his intellect, but most of all – his ability to pick up languages like he had been born knowing them. A glass of still water appears at Steve’s elbow, and he frowns.

“I saw the look on your face with the last swallow,” Tony leans forward in his seat, a plate placed in front of them, oysters glistening. “It’s a great vintage – but I drink wine firstly to get drunk, secondly for the taste. Since you aren’t going to get drunk, I won’t make you suffer. You ever have oysters before?”

Steve shakes his head, “Aren’t they an -?” 

“Aphrodisiac?” Tony supplies with a knowing smile, reaching out casually for one. Steve watches as Tony brings the shell to his lips, watches him swallow. The urge to lunge across the table, grab him by the front of his lapels, and kiss him until he’s breathless is almost overwhelming. Instead, he reaches for his own oyster, fingers brushing against melting ice. 

“Oh, they’re served cold?” Steve grimaces slightly, prodding at the gelatinous mass in the shell.

“Ugh, you charlatan,” Tony mutters, knocking Steve’s hand aside. He picks up the lemon wedge, squeezing an ample amount of juice over the oyster before picking it up and handing it to him. “Swallow – you’re good at that.”

It’s a come-on, but Steve doesn’t think that Tony truly means it. Steve knocks the oyster back, hoping that he likes it better than the wine. 

Now it’s Tony turn to ogle Steve shamelessly as he swallows the oyster, and there’s color high in his cheeks, a slight smile on his face. He’s had a lot of time to think about this – them – since he abandoned Steve at the cottage. _A lot of time to think about what I want – mostly him – in a bed, or anywhere at all… That’s it. After tonight, it could stop – if I wanted it to. And I do. Because I can’t stand the sight of him – but tonight, I can._

“How’s Nat? She dropped off the radar – I figured she’s with you.” He asks, to distract himself from these thoughts, picking up another oyster. If he keeps thinking like this, he’ll walk out of the restaurant, nausea twisting his insides as he recalls the grainy security camera footage of his mother – _his mother_ – being murdered.

“She’s – okay,” Steve says cautiously, suddenly feeling like he’s walking on a tightrope – a very thin tightrope that sways hundreds of feet over the ground. “She… Misses home. We talk about you, sometimes.”

“You’ve told her?” Tony’s voice is sharp, “Jesus, Steve – I don’t want people knowing – the whole point of meeting in secret is to keep it secret.”

“I’ve not told her,” Steve’s voice is equally sharp, “But she has a way of figuring things out, Tony.” 

“She has a way of doing a lot of things – stabbing people in the back, for one, she’s great at that.”

Steve crosses his arms over his chest, leaning away from the table, and Tony can tell that he’s angry. 

“I didn’t come all the way to Paris to eat oysters and fight with you, Tony.” 

“Why did you come, then?” Tony snaps, taking another gulp of wine to fortify himself. “Don’t answer that.” 

Steve stares at him in silence, and Tony feels like he’s wearing nothing at all – he’s used to undressing other people with his eyes, not being on the receiving end. _Well… He answered it._

“Alright, fine. Fine. You don’t want to talk about it? Fine. I don’t want to talk about it.” Tony wipes at his lips with the napkin he had spread across his lap, his hands mercifully steady. “You can ask about the kid, I can ask about Nat – but we shouldn’t… You know… Otherwise, we’ll both just fight. The last time I fought with you, I nearly died, so…” 

Steve looks away from him suddenly, a muscle jumping in his jaw, watching a few tables over as a couple feeds each other oysters.

“What is this, Tony?”

Tony squirms in his seat, he needs more wine before they have this conversation. Clearing his throat, he reaches for the final oyster. _God knows I’ll need it tonight._ That thought makes him grin.

“I’m buying you dinner. I think, back in your time, you would call this a date.” 

“Do I need to book a hotel room for myself tonight?”

Tony might as well lay all his cards out on the table. “No, our accommodation has been arranged,” he replies, words curt. “Christ, Steve, you cut to the chase, don’t you?” 

“I just want to make sure that we’re both clear.”

“There are a lot of things about this that are unclear,” Tony retorts. “But we’re not talking about it, are we?”

Their table is cleared in front of them, Tony’s glass of wine is refilled, and he reaches up to undo his tie. Steve’s blue eyes narrow, and his hand falls away from his neck, tie remaining tight. _Okay, I’ll let you do that later. Sorry, Cap._

“You want to bill me for the cottage?” Tony fixes the napkin on his lap as his main course is set in front of him – a filet of beef, roasted fall vegetables, and a nice scoop of mashed potatoes. American enough, he had figured, for Steve’s palate. “I’ll gladly pay half.”

“No, it’s fine…” Steve cuts into his filet, looking satisfied as it melts beneath his knife. “I just – feel bad about that night, like I… was pressuring you into something you didn’t want.” 

“That’s the trouble,” Tony says, taking a small bite – it’s excellent, and he wants to take his time. “I definitely wanted…” _You_. “But I also – couldn’t…” Though, thank God, the nightmares had lessened. On the flight over, he had slept the whole way through, after two Xanax. “But you don’t have to worry about that tonight, anyways. ‘Cause I’ve paid for it. So…”

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve says dutifully.

“You can stop apologizing,” Tony spears a roasted piece of squash. “There’s no use, Steve. You don’t mean it, anyways. I told you, I didn’t want to talk about work – and I consider what happened there to be work.” 

“Can you forgive me?” Steve inwardly doesn’t want to know the answer to that question, but he has to ask. 

“No, I don’t think I can – but…” Tony smiles at him ruefully, pointing his fork at Steve, squash dangling off the tine. “I’m here, aren’t I? Damned either way.” 

“You’re a romantic,” Steve says dryly, but his heart feels a little lighter in his chest. “I don’t consider being in love with you akin to damning myself.”

Tony waves his hand, finally eating the piece of squash, though it’s no longer warm. “Give it a couple of months, and you will – everyone does, eventually. Though you have the benefit of not being able to be with me day in and day out… That might provide longevity.” 

Tony is joking, but there’s a solemnity in his expression – Steve wants to kiss him again, but slowly, and murmur into his skin that he’s in it for the long haul. 

“Tony…”

The fork is pointing at him again threateningly. “Don’t Tony me. Eat your dinner. I don’t want to hear you complaining in the middle of the night that you’re hungry because everything will be closed, and I’m not getting out of bed before dawn to get you something to eat.” 

Steve blushes, grinning down at his plate – so, Tony plans on spending the night in a bed with him. Their conversation turns casual as they work on their dinner, they avoid the topic of the Avengers or Bucky, but Tony is eager to hear what Steve had done with his day in Paris. 

Both Tony and Steve are unremarkably stuffed to the gills by the time their dessert arrives, chocolate cake with a raspberry sauce, and Tony sighs in torment as he picks up his fork. 

“Don’t want to be wasteful,” he says through a mouthful of cake, Steve watching his tongue dart out and swipe chocolate icing off of his bottom lip. Tony’s leg brushes against his under the table, the slightest amount of pressure, and Steve can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of Tony’s trousers and his own jeans. He eats his dessert faster.

Once the bill is settled, Tony stands unsteadily from the table, and Steve’s large hand rests on his waist to steady him.

“I’m not drunk,” he insists, pulling away from Steve and leading the way out of the restaurant. “Maybe a little tipsy – but not drunk, and I plan on walking it off.”

Tony is a difficult man to fully understand – Steve had seen countless tabloid covers recounting Tony’s exploits. In idle jealousy, he had done research on every ex-flame Tony had that had been publicized. There was never a photo of him kissing his partner, though, the most scandalous thing was a snapshot of him holding hands with Pepper as they walked down the street. For all the talk about Tony being a playboy, his displays of affection are kept private.

“A walk?” Steve trots after him, shrugging his duffel bag over his shoulder. “It’s that close?”

Tony grins over his shoulder at him, brown eyes lit up with moonlight. “No, not really. But I need to walk it off, like I said. And I love Paris. Plus, I’ve got you here with me, no one’s gonna mug me when I’ve got a previously-blonde Hulk by my side.” 

Plus, the longer they walk, the more frustrated Steve will become – and Tony is eager to be on the receiving end of a sexually-frustrated Captain America.

Steve is at his side, Tony breathes in and can faintly smell his cologne – like wildfire, very masculine. Very Steve. Their footsteps echo down the empty street, like the way had been cleared just for them. Tony tenses as Steve’s hand brushes down his spine, resting against the small of his back, certainly rather possessive.

Usually, he would shy away from something so bold out in public, but tonight, he leans against Steve’s side. He’s waited too long to play coy, and should someone want to take their picture, they would have to use a flash. Then, he would sic Steve on them and have him beat them senseless. A foolproof plan. 

Steve’s hand brushes lower, getting a generous handful of Tony’s ass and squeezing, grinning when Tony makes what sounds like a surprised squeak – he’ll tease him about it in the morning. 

“Sorry,” his hand returns to the small of Tony’s back. “Been wanting to do that all night.”

“I made sure the pants were tight on purpose,” Tony admits, his arm wrapping around Steve’s waist. “I know how to accentuate my assets, as it were.”

“How long of a walk is this?” Steve can’t help but ask as Tony turns him down another winding street, though he’s slowly untucking Tony’s shirt from his trousers as they walk. 

“Eager,” Tony tsks, looking over at a quiet park to the right. “God, I wish it was daylight. The colors on the leaves are beautiful. Hey, let’s stop in there…”

Steve’s fingers brush against the bare skin of his back, having slipped up under his untucked shirt. They press into his skin purposefully, Tony knows he’ll have bruises there tomorrow. Steve’s gift to him is always bruises. 

“Okay, tomorrow, then,” Tony says quickly, hurrying his pace. “I’ll admit, we should have taken a taxi.”

“Tony,” Steve sounds even more impatient. “How long of a walk?”

“We probably have – a mile to go? I don’t know, I sort of strolled – I wasn’t paying attention to distance.”

Steve huffs, fingers curling against Tony’s hip, ushering him forward. “Genius intellect?”

“I didn’t know you’d be all riled up after dinner,” Tony argues, pushing Steve forward in turn, until they are both moving at more of a trot than a walk.

“It was the oysters,” Steve replies with a grin, watching Tony’s eyes widen. “You knew exactly what you were doing, don’t argue.” 

Tony stops them suddenly in front of a set of steps leading up to a quiet apartment building, and he fumbles in his pocket for the keys. They clink together as they hit the stone beneath Tony’s feet.

“Fuck.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve says, bending down to collect the keys. There are two, and he slots the first into the lock blindly, grinning as the door swings open.

“You had a fifty-fifty shot, don’t get too cocky,” Tony mutters, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him inside. “C’mon. Stairs. Up the fucking stairs.”

“You want me to carry you?” Steve has his hands on Tony’s hips, lifting him up off the ground without waiting to hear Tony’s answer. Tony gasps in surprise, his stomach flipping at the sudden loss of contact with the floor. 

“What floor are we going to?” Steve stares into his eyes, his hands bracing against Tony’s back, the keys cold against his hot skin. Tony swallows, wrapping his legs around Steve’s waist, his fingers laced together at the nape of his neck. 

“Uh – uh – uh…”

“Tony,” Steve murmurs, kissing him slowly, feeling Tony arch against him. He tastes of wine, though it’s better on his lips than in Steve’s glass. When Steve’s tongue brushes over his, he tastes chocolate, and – his eyebrows furrow. “You smoke?”

“When in Paris,” Tony murmurs breathlessly, his hands slipping down over Steve’s broad shoulders, nearly knocking his duffel bag off of his arm. “Christ, Steve, hurry up. I feel like an idiot.” He grasps at Steve’s biceps feeling the hard muscle beneath the leather of his jacket, and he’s carrying Tony up the stairs like he weighs nothing. Finally, he remembers. “Third floor. 302. God, Steve,” he grinds against him, breathless, his fingers trying to dig into the leather. “Hurry up.” 

He has no idea how Steve is climbing the stairs, carrying him, and kissing him so hard that his toes curl in his shoes – all at once. They really should be tumbling down the stairs, and it’ll be a coin toss as to who breaks their neck. Steve swallows his moans, pressing Tony up against the doorway, the decorative metal numbers of 302 digging between his shoulder blades. Steve’s left hand leaves his skin, keys jingling, and he thrusts it into the lock while Tony gasps against his neck, thankful for a moment to catch his breath.

They stagger into the apartment together, Tony’s legs slipping from Steve’s waist, feet dragging against the floor as he’s barreled forward. Steve has him out of his jacket, and then his trousers, and Tony doesn’t know how the hell he’s undressing him so fast. Steve’s hands slip over the front of his briefs, the same shade of blue as Steve’s eyes (Tony had made that choice rather intentionally) and he gives a pleased hum. 

“Alright, my turn,” Tony replies, reaching up to pull Steve’s jacket off of his shoulders, the duffel bag landing heavily on his foot. Steve catches his wrist, pulling his hand away from his chest. 

Tony’s feet fumble as Steve pushes his backwards, the back of his thighs hitting the edge of the mattress, tumbling down onto unmade sheets. _I should have made the bed if I was going to have visitors – Mamma would be mad._ He laughs wildly, admiring Steve’s form in the darkness, and then groans as Steve rests his full weight against him. 

“No, Tony,” Steve murmurs, rolling his hips experimentally against the other man’s, Tony’s fingers tugging at his hair sharply, insistently. The pearl buttons of Tony’s dress shirt ease out of the holes confining them in quick succession, Steve’s blunt fingers dancing down the scar left over from his recent surgery. “I’m going to make you beg for it,” he murmurs, capturing Tony’s lips with his own, ignoring the sharper tug at his hair, instead focusing on the way Tony’s body jerks against his. 

True to his word, Steve has Tony on the verge of tears before he finally gives him what he wants, what he needs – what he came here for.

Afterwards, once he’s caught his breath, he climbs off of Tony with the intent of getting a washcloth from the bathroom to clean up. Tony tackles him back against the mattress, moving with shocking speed and expending force Steve didn’t know that he had. 

“Jesus, Tony,” Steve says breathlessly, relaxing under Tony as he makes himself comfortable on top of Steve. “I was just going to the bathroom.”

“You’ll have to hold it,” Tony mumbles, kissing him in the darkness. “I thought you were running out on me.”

“Never,” Steve promises, holding Tony close.

Tony’s nose nudges his dog tags, and Steve feels him laugh against his sweat-damp skin. “Christ. You really are always wearing these things,” Tony says fondly, and after a moment, he’s snoring softly against Steve’s chest.

* * *

“Jesus, not again,” Steve groans when he wakes to an empty bed.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Tony’s voice echoes from the bathroom, and Steve grins, stretching out on the bed – wonderfully sore. His smile fades when Tony emerges from the bathroom, wearing his trousers and shirt from the night before – and drowning in Steve’s leather jacket.

“Running out on me, this time?”

Tony frowns at him, picking up a pillow from where it had fallen off of the foot of the bed, and chucking it at Steve’s head.

“Your stomach was rumbling while you slept,” Tony mutters, turning to the door. “I’m going to go and get us some breakfast. You just stay there and relax,” he looks over his shoulder at him, gaze lingering on Steve until his cheeks flush pink. “You’re cute when you blush,” are Tony’s parting words, said with a cheeky grin.

Steve slips back into a light doze, grabbing at Tony’s pillow and holding it tightly, smelling the billionaire’s cologne faintly. He doesn’t stir when Tony slips back into the apartment half an hour later.

Tony sighs as he looks at him, leaning back against the door. The sunlight pours in from the curtains, which stir at the slight breeze – Tony had opened the windows before going to the bathroom, wanting to breathe in fresh air. The light dances over Steve’s back, shadows and glow, catching streaks of gold in his now dark hair. Tony’s mouth had left a purple bruise on the curve of his shoulder, so Tony leans down over the bed and presses his lips to it. Steve stirs, his hand grabbing at the hem of Tony’s shirt, trying to pull him down onto the bed.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty,” Tony murmurs, pulling away. “I got chocolate croissants. They’re still hot.”

He moves to the small table and two chairs by the open windows, tilting his head as he catches a few notes of music on the breeze, his eyes closing. _I love Paris._

“Not joining you til you’re naked,” Steve argues from the bed, rolling onto his back, his hands behind his head.

“I’m not going to eat a chocolate croissant naked,” Tony replies, his back still to Steve, though Steve’s jacket drops to the floor beside his feet – and then Tony’s shirt, and his trousers. “Crumbs will get everywhere. This is as far as I’ll go.”

“Is that you being romantic again?” Steve reaches out with his right hand, pushing the brown bag open so he can grab a warm pastry. “Jesus, Tony, did you buy thirty?” 

“Ten,” Tony replies guiltily, moving away from Steve so he can sit at the table. He gives Steve a look when the other man sits across from him and pats his lap, one that tells Steve not to push his luck.

“I understand now,” Steve sighs, the pastry buttery, the chocolate rich. “I’ll probably eat eight.”

“I figured,” Tony replies quietly, taking a bite of his croissant. “My flight is at four.”

Steve’s stomach drops, appetite withering. “You’re – just one night?” 

Tony shrugs, looking out the window, “I didn’t have a choice. I have to be in Brussels tonight. An EU benefit, and then I have to speak. Dance for our dinner – win a few hearts. Anything I can do to keep the heat off of you guys, and off of – the Avengers. Don’t get it twisted, Steve, this was just sex.” He looks over at Steve and frowns. “That was harsh, I guess. But honest. You don’t have to go right away, though – the apartment – I… Bought it.”

“You bought this whole – when?”

“The night I made the reservation for our dinner.” Tony bites into his croissant, his cheeks flushing pink. “I thought maybe we’d come back to Paris. Plus, I wanted a base for myself in Europe – I’m sick of these long haul flights. They won’t let me take the suit.”

“So, it’s yours…”

“Ours,” Tony corrects. “For this, obviously.” He gestures between them. “But we better not meet here next, I want to keep them guessing."

Steve’s whole body warms – _ours._ “Keep – Keep who guessing? You think we’ve already been found out?” 

Tony shrugs again, “No. I have FRIDAY monitoring all channels, believe me, but I still want to be careful. You’re great in the sack, Rogers, but I’d prefer not to die just because I needed to get laid.”

“Well…” Steve picks up another croissant, his appetite is rejuvenated. “When would we be able to meet next?” 

“December is shot for me,” Tony replies unhappily, “I’ll spend Christmas alone because otherwise it’ll attract attention. Any time after – I’ll let you pick the place again. This time I’ll stay for longer than an hour.” He wipes his fingers clean, returning to one of the open windows, gazing down at the street below. The music is louder, and he leans forward, wishing it were his fingers on the keys of the piano. 

Tony is pulled out from the song by the brush of cool metal over his skin, Steve’s dog tags resting between the juts of his collarbones. He reaches up, fingertip rubbing over the raised metal of Steve’s name.

“I’m not wearing these things,” Tony mutters, leaning back against Steve again as he wraps his arms around him. 

Steve rests his chin on Tony’s shoulder. “I’ve had those since before I was in the ice – they’re a part of me. And now you’ve got them.”

“Absolutely not wearing them,” Tony repeats, but he doesn’t move to pull them up over his head as Steve had feared.

“Where’s that music coming from?” Steve asks as he turns Tony around in his arms, his hands resting on Tony’s hips. Tony’s eyebrows raise as Steve starts to sway them around the one bedroom apartment.

“There’s a…” Tony looks down at their feet, “I’ve never not led before – this is weird – jazz club down the street. I didn’t think anyone would be playing this early.”

“It’s nice,” Steve murmurs, kissing Tony slowly, feeling him melt into Steve’s embrace with a quiet sigh. “I love you.”

Tony pauses, though his feet don’t falter despite his hesitation. He looks up into Steve’s eyes, his smile tinged with regret. “You have my apologies, Cap.” 

It stings when Tony pulls out of Steve’s arms so that he can begin packing up his suitcase. He pulls away very quickly, and Steve feels like an idiot, his arms dangling at his sides.

“But I do love you,” Steve insists. Tony doesn’t reply.


	7. Chapter 7

Tony has not spent a Christmas truly alone since the year his parents had died. After that, he would spend Christmas with Rhodey’s family – and after he had hired Pepper, she would usually find herself in his Malibu mansion, making sure that he didn’t choke on his own vomit as he drank himself to oblivion. And when he and Pepper were together… She had allowed Tony to sink himself into the holiday completely, stringing up bright lights and dragging a massive Christmas tree through the foyer. And yes, she had requested that he limit his singing of Christmas carols to the waking hours, but she had smiled all the same – and sang along, sometimes. 

Rhodey had invited him over to his mother’s for Christmas, noticing the way Tony was wandering lost around the compound, his hand occasionally moving to a slight lump under his shirt. He was wearing a necklace of some sort, Rhodey could see the metal beads that made up the chain around his neck – but Rhodey was also concerned about the faint blue light visible through the fabric of Tony’s shirt. Tony had declined his invitation, how could he look into the eyes of Rhodey’s mother, as the man who had effectively paralyzed her son?

Pepper had quietly extended an invitation to him as well, but he was, in truth, terrified of Richard Potts. Pepper’s father had never particularly cared for him, and while their break-up had been mostly amiable, he knew that it had not improved his standing in her father’s eyes. So, he had declined that, too.

Vision – well, he had made some sort of weak lie, that he was visiting Europe for the holidays. Tony had nearly choked, laughing with a mouthful of coffee, because Vision sounded nearly the same as he did when he was making excuses to see Steve. 

On Christmas Day, Tony had woken up in a bed far too big for one person – Steve’s bed, in truth. With the compound empty, he wasn’t worried about being caught in Captain America’s bedroom. It was self indulgent, he reminded himself, as he had breathed in the scent of Steve on his sheets. He had not spoken to Steve since Paris, and the thought of Paris at all makes Tony sigh, his hand covering his eyes against the daylight. _A mistake._ He had convinced himself of that for a while, until red roses had been delivered to the compound on December 16th, with a note that read ‘Thinking of you.’ Tony had taken the roses with him when he had visited the grave of his mother that day – wanting to get them out of his sight. _Thinking of me now, but what about when you knew – what about when you lied to me every day? Arrogant bastard, I don’t want your flowers._ He had effectively ignored his father’s grave, like always, but sat in front of his mother’s and pulled any stray weed that dare interrupted Maria Stark’s eternal rest.

Eventually, he had dragged himself from Steve’s bed, nursing a hangover from the night before. Christmas Eve had been spent finishing one of Natasha’s bottles of vodka that she kept hidden in her room, not really watching _It’s A Wonderful Life_ as it played on the television. He had stopped in the kitchen for another nip from a new bottle, the burn making him gag over the sink, sure that he would be sick – but when it faded, he took another gulp, and smiled. 

His morning and afternoon were spent at the gym, punching the punching bag until his arms trembled and his world swam in and out of focus. This was torture, he knew that, because he could feel Steve’s lips against the back of his neck every time his gloved fist struck the bag. Then the burn in his chest would come back, the phantom pain of having his arc reactor shattered into pieces, the burn of betrayal – and the realization that he was weak, that he had set it all aside for a night with the man who had lied to him and nearly killed him. _Paris was a mistake, Stark. You know it was. But you were so desperate for a night with Captain America again that you were willing to put everything aside – you betrayed your mother that night. Never again._ Another gulp of vodka down, and now he stands in front of the fireplace, Steve’s dog tags clenched in his fist.

“So much for togetherness, huh, Cap?” He slurs, letting the chain slip between his fingers, the gunmetal tags hovering dangerously close to the flames. He could just let them go, he could watch them burn and be done with it. Toss the flip phone into the flames for good measure, the flip phone that felt as heavy in his pocket as the shackles on his wrists would feel once they were found out. _And we will be found out. And I’ll be the one to get in trouble for it, like always. Steve will escape unscathed, unbothered – they’ll hang me, or electrocute me, or give me a lethal injection. Steve will get his dog tags in the mail, still stained with my blood._ Tony laughs hoarsely, and the dog tags finally slip from his fist. 

“Fuck!” He lunges forward, head striking the side of the fireplace, vision swimming – but he has the necklace in his hands. His fingers are burning, he realizes, looking at them as they redden in the flames. Slowly, he pulls his hand away, and the pain begins. Some of the metal beads of the necklace are burned into the palm of his hand, and he grimaces as pieces of his skin are torn away when he yanks the necklace free. Idly, he reaches up to the side of his head where it had struck the fireplace, feeling warm blood through his hair.

The dog tags clink dully as he slips the necklace back over his head, the metal still burning hot against his skin. Every part of his body hurts, and he should go to bed before he does real damage to himself.

_No one would care, anyways. No one’s here. Ross would probably organize a parade – bigger than Macy’s on Thanksgiving. People would go to it. People would cheer._

He stares down at the blue light faintly shining through the black t shirt he’s wearing – his usual ugly Christmas sweater is in his closet, he couldn’t bring himself to wear it. Reinstalling the reactor – well, that had been a stroke of mad genius. His false sternum held more nanites than he could possibly hope to fit in it, and the casing of the reactor held the rest. He had nearly passed out in the bathtub as he had cut thin lacerations into his chest, the needle into his false sternum painless, but the magnets he had slid under his skin agonizing. When his world had come back into focus, thin streams of blood ran down his chest, but the reactor hummed – a quiet promise of power. _It’s good to have it back._

Grabbing the half empty bottle of vodka, Tony leaves the living room, _Elf_ now blaring on the surround sound. He walks down the hall, past the door to the gym, past the door to the med bay. The stairway to the roof is hidden in the back of the compound, and he shoulders the heavy door open with a grunt. Snow had fallen a few days ago, and more is falling as he makes his way up to the roof, shivering at the chill. He takes a quick sip of vodka, the warmth spreading through his body against the snow, and he knows that as long as he has something to drink, he’ll be alright. 

His socked feet curl over the edge of the roof, gazing down at the ground below. His brain, always working – never at rest, calculates the various trajectories of falls he could take. _God damn it._ None of them are fatal. The one that could possibly invoke the most damage, a broken neck or a broken back – he’d have to get exactly right. He’s drunk enough that he doesn’t trust himself to pirouette through the air as required.

Cold metal trickles from his chest, over his shoulder, down his bicep and across his wrist – finally encasing his hand in a gauntlet. The repulsor hums, a sound he usually finds comforting, but now… Hesitantly, he holds his hand up to his head, closing his eyes against the light. 

_That would help. The blast would probably kill me – and if not, the fall would finish me off. But not from the front_.

He moves his trembling hand to the back of his head, the hum turning into a whine. _Come on, Stark. Do it._

In his pocket, the flip phone vibrates. _Ignore it._ Eventually, the vibration ceases, and Tony takes a deep breath. _Here goes._

“God damn it,” he mutters as the phone vibrates again, more insistently, if that’s possible. He lowers his hand away from his head, his burned right hand plunging into his pocket to get the phone. He nearly drops it, his entire body shuddering – adrenaline coursing through him, adrenaline and fear. _Never again. I said I was giving this up. Goddamn it, Stark, put the phone down. Put it down._

“Tony?” Steve’s voice is sleepy and slow in his ear, and Tony knows that Steve is calling him in the middle of the night in Wakanda – December 26th, at this point. “Hey, Tony – are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here, Cap.” Tony’s thighs tremble, everything below his knees seems not to be operating, he sways dangerously as snowflakes land in his hair. _I hate the cold._

Something in his voice must give him away, because there’s rustling, the click of a bedside lamp being turned on. Steve’s voice is no longer sleepy, it’s deep, laced with concern. 

“Tony – Are you – Hey, Tony – What are you doing right now, sweetheart?”

Tony would laugh at being called sweetheart – Steve’s not called him a pet name before, not even in bed – but he’s drunk, and he’s terrified, and he can’t pull himself away from the edge of the roof.

“I’m just entertaining myself, Steve – enjoying the holiday, you know.” Tony’s not sure why he’s not being honest with Steve, why he doesn’t just come out and say that he’s considering blasting his own head off because he’s so _goddamn_ lonely and nobody cares what happens to him. “Why’d you call me?”

Steve is silent for a moment, and Tony’s phone – his real phone, buzzes in his pocket with an alert. He can’t pull it out, without falling off of the roof, but he hears Steve mutter a curse and makes an educated guess. 

“Are you trying to hack the compound’s cameras right now?” Tony asks, a manic laugh echoing into the phone as he sways forward again. “Jesus, Steve, really? There’s no way you’d get through – you don’t even know how to use Google.”

“I do know how to use Google, Tony,” Steve replies sharply, “But I don’t need it to know that you’re drunk right now. Drunk and probably doing something dangerous. Where are you?” 

“I’m on the roof,” Tony breathes, looking down at the ground again – it doesn’t seem so far away now, and the snow would catch him, surely. It would cushion his fall. It wouldn’t be so bad, to jump.

“Jesus,” Steve says softly, “Tony – Just… Why are you on the roof?”

_Why do you think, Steve? The stakes are getting higher, and there is no one here to help me. I won’t let Rhodey get involved, Vision is with Wanda. That leaves me. So much for a team, so much for the Avengers._

“Well… I was thinking of jumping.” There’s the honesty Steve’s been searching for, but he knows that Steve won’t be relieved to hear it – won’t be relieved at all.

“Is it snowing?” Steve asks him suddenly, his tone is cautious – but Tony swears he can hear a faint hint of terror. Thousands of miles away, and unable to catch Tony were his feet to slip – and they likely will, even in the cold, he’s dripping with sweat.

“Why does it matter?” Tony snaps, but he looks up at the dark sky regardless, flecks of snow landing on his eyelashes. He loved the snow – he used to – but Siberia had taken that from him. Afghanistan had stolen the beach from him, and Siberia the snow. “Yeah, it’s snowing." 

“It’s not snowing here,” Steve says casually, and Tony can hear him shift in bed as he looks out the window. “Wish it was – I loved Brooklyn in the snow. Made it feel like a different place, something out of a fairytale.” 

Steve’s childhood is a mysterious thing, Tony is curious about it, but he's never asked. Without realizing it, he’s inching back from the edge of the roof, the nanites making their rapid trek back to the reactor.

“Did you make snowmen?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Steve’s smiling, he can hear it in his voice. “Yeah, Ma would let me out for twenty minutes at a time – you know, the cold was bad for my lungs, but my allergies were better when it snowed. Buck and I -,” Steve pauses, breathing in deeply, preparing himself for a tirade from Tony – but nothing comes from the other man. “Tony?” 

“I’m here, Steve.” He reaches up to probe at the side of his head, now crusty with blood, but no longer actively bleeding. _That’s good._ “Just listening.”

“Your teeth are chattering, Tony,” Steve sounds relieved. “You should go inside. Anyways, we’d race in and out of the apartment – the snowman would melt a little more every time we went inside. Snow never stuck around for long in my neighborhood – and eventually, some punk would kick my snowman over, but we’d always make another.”

Tony rubs at his tired eyes as he steps into the stairwell, the air incredibly warm compared to what he had endured outside. His feet carry him down the stairs, walking without purpose – at least, he doesn’t think he has a purpose as he falls face-first onto Steve’s bed. 

“Why’d you call, Steve?” 

“I had a dream,” Steve admits, “A nightmare, I guess. I needed to hear your voice. Where are you now, Tony?”

“In bed.” _Your bed._ “Safe and sound. Snug as a bug in a rug. Though, if I were a bug in a rug, I’d be worried about getting stepped on. So is that considered snug…?”

Steve chuckles, not because Tony’s particular line of thinking is funny, but because Tony is spilling out a stream of consciousness – and because Tony is no longer on the roof.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs after a pause. “I was thinking. Do you have any preference on where we go next?” 

_So much for never again._ But Tony wants Steve’s arms around him again, wants Steve to cover his body in adoring kisses – wants to feel the rush that comes when Steve thrusts into him with a groan of his name – _Tony’s_ name. _You’re weak, Stark. But at least you know you are._

“C’mon, Steve,” Tony groans, reaching down to pull off his socks. “I told you that you had to pick the next place. Why do I have to do all the work?”

Steve laughs, and Tony closes his eyes at the sound. “Hey, I was just asking for a suggestion, Tony. C’mon, give me something to go on.”

“Somewhere warm. By the ocean.” Tony pulls one of Steve’s pillows closer to him, breathing in deeply. With Steve’s voice in his ear and Steve’s blankets around him, it’s almost like the other man is there. _Almost._

“How about Portugal?” There’s the soft click of keys in the background, Steve is proving that he can use Google. “New Year’s Day. Meet me at the airport in Lisbon. I’ll pick you up.”

“It won’t be warm in January,” Tony says sleepily, putting the phone on speaker and setting it on the pillow by his head.

“You never know, we might get lucky. You falling asleep on me, Stark?”

“Absolutely not,” Tony yawns, his blistered fingers held protectively against his chest – he’ll be a mess in the morning. At least there’s the med bay, though there’s no doctor here to tend to him. He’ll make do – a Boxing Day miracle. 

“It’s okay, Tony, you fall asleep. I’ll be here. Sun’s coming up, anyways.” 

Tony relaxes against the mattress, the tension fading out of his body as he starts to drift to sleep.

On the opposite side of the world, Steve listens as Tony’s breathing deepens – indescribably thankful for his nightmare that had urged him to call Tony in the first place.


	8. Chapter 8

The days between Christmas and New Years pass in a drunken blur for Tony. Rhodey, at some point in that time span, returns home – and is horrified to see the state that Tony is in. He bandages Tony’s burned hand for him and tries to wheedle out what has gotten Tony to this point, but Tony merely brushes him aside and disappears to his workshop. 

Tony sobers up enough to sit through a five hour furious debrief with Secretary Ross on New Year’s Eve, and by the time he makes it to the airport that night, he’s ready to phone up Steve and call the whole thing off. Hell, he’s ready to tell Ross that Steve and the ex-Avengers are hiding out in Wakanda, because _of course they are._ He’s sick of being sent on wild-goose chases around the world: a tall blonde man seen here, a girl with glowing red hands seen there. He’s also sick of Ross’ idle threats – though not so idle anymore, Ross had told him with a scowl that were Tony to continue failing to find the ex-Avengers, he’ll be incarcerated in a matter of months. Tony’s not sure when he accepted this responsibility for other people, but he’s done being a babysitter, and he’s done placating his baser desires of a quick and rough fuck from Captain America

And there Steve is now, tall, strapping, beautiful – and oh so conspicuous. _What is it about a baseball cap that makes him feel like he’s someone else? Jesus Christ. Well, at least there’s the beard._

Tony pulls his suitcase behind him as he walks over to Steve, and he tenses immediately as Steve wraps him in a tight hug.

“Jesus, Tony,” Steve breathes against the side of his head, his hands grasping at Tony tightly, holding him on the ground.

Tony moves his hands up between them, pushing against Steve’s chest until he lets go. There’s a scowl on his face as he looks around the arrivals terminal. _There are too many eyes here for Steve to start getting all sappy on me._

“Tony,” Steve looks at him, taking inventory. His brown eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses, and his goatee is impeccable, but he’s swaying with the light breeze from the air conditioner – dead on his feet. “You look -.” 

“Dashingly handsome? Drop dead gorgeous? Utterly fucka-?” 

“ – Like shit.” Steve takes his suitcase from him, walking with him through the airport – it’s not as busy as it could be, given the holiday, but he knows he shouldn’t have hugged Tony. It was an instinct, to prove that the man was truly there – not on the roof of the Avengers compound, contemplating jumping off of it.

Tony snorts, his trembling hands shoved deep into his pockets. “I’ll tell you why I look like shit, bud, the cause has a name – Thaddeus Ross. What an asshole.” 

“Tony,” Steve says in warning, looking over at him. “I thought we agreed not to talk about -.” 

“Yeah, we did,” Tony snaps, glaring at Steve so hotly that Steve can feel his anger burning through the dark lenses of his sunglasses. “Silly old me, must have slipped my mind. You know what? I think I’m too busy to meet with you today. Way too busy. Maybe if I had the rest of my _team,_ there wouldn’t be as much work for me to do. But you all are enjoying playing hooky, aren’t you?”

If they aren’t careful, they will cause a scene in the middle of the airport. Steve’s grip tightens on the handle of Tony’s suitcase, walking faster. Tony trots after him, his voice raising at Steve’s back. 

“Oh, embarrassed, are we? Lying to my face, that’s easy, but when faced with a little scolding, Steve Rogers runs the other way. Dear old Dad never mentioned that Captain America was a coward – but he spent his whole life licking your boots, so his mouth was a little busy.” 

“Tony,” Steve hisses, grabbing the other man roughly by the upper arm. Tony physically recoils from his touch, and Steve drops his hand away, blue eyes guilty. “C’mon, Tony,” he pleads. “We’re in the middle of the airport. Can’t this wait until we get… Get to where we’re staying?” 

Tony reaches up slowly to rub at his upper arm where Steve had grabbed it, gently brushing his palm over the fabric of the jacket he’s wearing. The movement draws Steve’s gaze to the faint light in Tony’s chest – and that’s not right, Tony didn’t have a reactor anymore. He had seen the evidence of its removal himself. 

“Fine,” Tony says softly. “Fine.”

“I’m parked in the lot,” Steve takes a hopeful step towards the door. 

“What are you driving?” Tony asks him suddenly, grabbing the handle of his suitcase from Steve. 

“I – a motorcycle, I don’t remember the -.”

“No, no. Absolutely not. I’m not getting on one of those things with _you_.” Venom drips from Tony’s voice, and Steve is the one to recoil, looking out the glass door at the parking garage. “You want me to bust my skull open? Jesus. I’ll rent a car.” 

“I…” Steve swallows, this isn’t how this is supposed to go. Lisbon is experiencing a freak heat-wave for January, the temperatures outside are in the low 70s. This trip to Portugal is supposed to mirror their trip to Paris. They were supposed to set aside what happened in the past and enjoy each other’s company. Not even in bed, the entire time, no – Steve missed hearing Tony rant about his newest invention, and Steve had never heard Tony play the piano. There had been one in Stark Tower, a beautiful, shining grand piano. Pepper Potts had heard Tony play, and Steve knew it was ridiculous to feel jealous about that, but… When he had rented their house for their time here, he had searched high and low for a house that came with a piano – just in case Tony felt like playing for him. Now, Tony is more likely to throw the piano at him in a fit of rage. 

“I’ll follow you,” Tony snaps over his shoulder, already walking towards the escalators that will lead him to the car rental section of the airport. “You just wait on your death-machine, and I’ll follow you. You don’t even wear a fucking helmet.”

Steve thinks of the helmet he had slung over the handlebars for Tony and feels sick. This isn’t how this is supposed to go at all. 

Tony follows behind Steve in his new rental car – he had accepted the first thing offered to him, a black Audi. The sunlight shines on Steve’s hair as he drives ahead to their destination, and Tony glowers, thinking of Steve’s beautiful blonde hair in bloody strands along the pavement. _Idiot doesn’t even wear a helmet._

The place Steve had chosen for them to stay surprises him – thus far, they had both chosen rather reserved locations. The only requirement had been a bedroom and a door that locks. This house looks vaguely similar to the Malibu mansion – definitely not as sprawling – but the house clings to the cliff-edge, and when Tony opens the door of his car, he can hear the ocean crashing against the rock below.

He drags his suitcase up the driveway furiously, muffling a curse when he runs over his own foot in his haste. 

“Here, let me,” Steve says, reaching for the handle, and Tony wrenches it away from him. 

“I’ve got it, thanks,” Tony sneers. “I can take care of myself, if it’s not obvious.” 

“Tony.” Steve opens the door for them, his hands held up defensively in front of his chest. “Look, whatever it is you need to say…” He shuts the front door behind Tony, his voice echoing against the white tile floors. “I promise, I’ll listen – but I really think that you should lie down.” 

“I can take care of myself,” Tony repeats, his voice lowering, words laced with rage. “I don’t need Captain America telling me that it’s nap-time, believe me.” He steps into the huge sitting room, eyes passing over the grand piano, briefly taking in the scene of the ocean through the expansive walls of glass at the back of the room – this is eerily similar to Malibu.

“Okay.” Steve sits on the couch, his hand idly brushing over the soft leather. He wishes he had his shield to protect himself with – because Tony is seething, and there is something glowing in his chest. 

“I shouldn’t have come here,” Tony says, his back to him. He stares out at the ocean, watching the rough waves as they roll in against the cliff. “I can hardly look at you without wanting to throw a punch or vomit. Sometimes both.” 

Steve’s hand clenches into a fist. “Then why did you come?” 

“For sex,” Tony says flatly. “Is that not obvious? How do I get it through your thick skull, Steve? I come to you for sex, that’s all.”

“That’s not all,” Steve argues, though he knows it’s dangerous. “That’s not all, and you know it.” 

Tony whirls around to face him, and his hand moves to his chest, fingers hovering over the light shining dimly through his jacket. He’s furious, the tendons of his neck are tense, and Steve watches a bead of sweat trickle down from his forehead to his temple. 

“I could kill you,” Tony says quietly, fingers still hovering. “I could. I’ve got a suit now, with me. All it would take is a tap of my fingers, and I could blast your fucking brains out. I should have, in Siberia – but I held back. I held back, and you didn’t.” 

Steve’s hand unfurls against his thigh – they have circled back to this, and perhaps it’s time. Time for him to listen, and then he will tell Tony what he needs to hear – because Steve is starting to believe it, too.

“Every day. You saw me almost every day for over a year – you had every opportunity to tell me about Barnes and my parents. Why didn’t you?” 

“You know why I didn’t,” Steve says, keeping his voice even.

Tony holds his hand up, finally moving it away from the light in his chest, and Steve relaxes imperceptibly. 

“I know the lie you tell yourself,” Tony replies, “And the lie you’ve told me. But you know the truth, Steve, so say it.” 

Steve’s jaw works. “I – Fine. Fine. I didn’t tell you because I knew that you would try to get revenge. You would pour every ounce of energy into finding Bucky, and then you would kill him. Because he killed your mother.”

“Don’t mention her!” Tony’s face contorts with rage, Steve has never seen him this livid in his life – though he can tell that Tony is suffering from a terrible hangover, and he wishes the other man had taken his advice and gone to bed. “She was an innocent. She had nothing to do with my father’s work. You’re telling me Barnes was given an order to kill them both? He killed her first, and he made my dad watch!” 

Tony turns to face the window again, reaching out to steady himself, cold sweat running down the column of his spine. His heart thumps painfully, he idly wonders if he’s going to give himself a heart attack. _I can’t speak Portuguese._ For a few moments, his gaze fixates on the ocean, and he tries to time his breathing with the crash of the waves. 

“You and I both know that whatever orders HYDRA gave, they would have specified the need for no witnesses. I’m telling you, Tony – I swear to you, he wasn’t there. Bucky wasn’t there. His body was there, yes – but his mind? We’re just beginning to get him back. I can… I can arrange for you to speak with a spokesperson from Wakanda, they can talk you through what they’ve found while…”

“You want me to pity him?” Tony shakes his head, still looking out at the waves. “You want me to pity him, and you want me to forgive you. It’s too much. You ask too much.”

“What could I do?” Steve stands, but he doesn’t advance towards Tony. “What could I do to fix it?”

“Find a way to time travel and tell me the moment you found out,” Tony replies hollowly, though there’s no snark, as much as he tries to muster it. 

“I was selfish.” Steve says, lifting the lid of the piano and picking a key at random. Tony winces at the window despite himself, how could Steve choose something so atonal at random? “You’re right. I ask too much. I can’t go back in time and fix things. I wish I could. Because you were right about the Accords, too.”

Tony’s eyes widen, and he reaches up to take off his sunglasses, turning to look at Steve in utter disbelief.

“Say that again.” 

Steve humors him. “You were right about the Accords. I don’t believe in them, Tony, you know I don’t. But we wouldn’t have been able to avoid them, or something worse later down the road. The world is different, sometimes I think I’ve adapted to it, and then something happens and I realize that I’m still frozen. I should have just signed them.” 

“Yeah, you should have.” It’s supposed to be spiteful, but the words from Tony are exhausted. How many times had he asked Steve to just **sign** them?

“But I didn’t. And I tore the team apart. And I hurt you. I’ll regret that to the day I die. I was selfish. I asked too much, and I took too much. What do you want me to do, Tony?” Steve looks over his shoulder at him, the question sincere. “Do you want me to turn myself in? I will.” 

Tony almost says yes. The word forms in his mouth, he can taste it on his tongue. If Steve turns himself in, Ross will get off of his back – his world will become a little less stressful. _But then I would stress about Steve on the Raft. I would stress about him going to trial. At least with him in Wakanda, I know he’s safe. I’ll just have to do better trying to ‘find’ him for Ross – and if they put me in prison, well… Well, they’ll find the dog tags when they strip me and then they’ll know. Christ, I should take these things off._

Instead, he opens his mouth and says, “I’m not having sex with you this time.”

Steve blinks, “I – That’s okay.” 

“I don’t want you to turn yourself in,” Tony continues, pushing his suitcase over to one of the many bedrooms. He peers inside, judging the size of the bed – it will do. “Because then I would worry about you.” 

Steve smiles slightly, warm relief spreading over him. It had been a gamble, to accuse Tony of having feelings for him when they weren’t lying naked in bed together – to force Tony to recognize the true reason behind these clandestine meetings. 

“Hey,” Steve says as he turns away from the piano, “Do you want…?”

The door to the bedroom is shut, and Steve waits for the lock to click into place, but it doesn’t. 

Steve sighs, running a hand over his face, fingers scratching at his beard. He’s not tired, but he doubts he’ll see Tony for at least twelve hours. Inwardly, as he makes his way to the bedroom beside Tony’s, he hopes the man will stay for more than one night. He hopes his admission will be enough. If he can’t get Tony’s forgiveness, at least he will be able to get Tony’s acceptance – and maybe that will be enough for them.

* * *

No sex will be easy, Steve convinces himself as he pushes eggs around on the frying pan. In fact, his line of reasoning continues, no sex will allow them to enjoy each other’s company on a level they’ve not had the opportunity to reach before. Carefully, Steve scoops the eggs onto the plate that holds a few slices of toast and some bacon. A greasy breakfast, hopefully greasy enough to mop up Tony’s hangover.

No sex will **not** be easy. Steve’s eyes widen as he opens the door to Tony’s bedroom and sees Tony standing in front of him in a crimson Speedo.

“My eyes are quite literally up here, Cap,” Tony says sharply. 

“Sorry, sorry – I just... Jesus, Tony, why are you wearing that?”

“I’m going swimming. That’s typically why people wear swimsuits, Rogers, ” Tony drawls, reaching out for a piece of toast off of the plate that Steve holds. “You gonna keep staring at my dick or what?” 

“Sorry,” Steve manages to pull his gaze away, his cheeks flushed pink. He nearly looks Tony in the eyes, but his gaze falls upon the reactor in his chest. It’s a different design than Steve remembers – triangular, sleek, the blue light laced over by streaks of silver metal. Surrounding the reactor are fading bruises, Tony’s battered chest now covered in a few more scars. Steve almost drops the plate of breakfast. 

“Christ, Tony – When did you… Why did you…?”

Tony rolls his eyes and taps the center of the reactor, a thick stream of metallic fluid traveling up his neck – and Steve blinks as Tony’s head is suddenly encased in a helmet. Tony cocks his head, illuminated eye slits regarding Steve coldly. 

“It’s nano-tech. It does what I want it to do, and it’s instantaneous. If you ripped this helmet off of my head, another one would be there before you could land a punch. I learn from my mistakes.” 

Steve looks away, and Tony shoulders past him.

Steve follows after him out onto the deck, still holding the rapidly cooling plate of breakfast he had made for Tony. It’s cool outside, a breeze coming up off of the ocean, but the pool is heated. Tony stands at the foot of it, rolling his shoulders slowly. Steve reaches behind him, the deck chair giving way against his palm, and he lowers himself down onto it without taking his eyes off of Tony. Tony is still wearing the helmet, which Steve doesn’t understand – but his confusion gives way to surprise as Tony dives into the pool. He has impeccable form, and this display of athleticism is not something Steve had anticipated. Yes, Tony is in shape – in fact, he possesses the exact kind of body Steve had wanted before the serum. Not well defined musculature that required constant upkeep, but a subtle strength that came from hefting a metal suit around.

Steve darts back into the house to get his sketchbook as Tony pushes through the water, doing countless numbers of laps. Occasionally, he pauses at the end of the pool – leaning over the glass edge to look down at the ocean below. The sunlight glints off the dark red of his helmet, and he should look ridiculous, but he doesn’t.

“Why are you wearing a helmet?” Steve asks as he shades over the crest of Tony’s bicep, frowning down at his drawing. 

Tony stops at his end of the pool, the nanites returning to the reactor, his head completely dry. He picks up a cold piece of bacon, looking up at Steve with a frown.

“I don’t like getting my head wet. Can’t stand it.”

Steve smiles slightly, thinking it’s just another one of Tony Stark’s quirks.

“I did diving when I was in MIT,” Tony continues, crunching on the bacon.

“You – sports?”

“Yes,” Tony rests his hand against his chest. “Me… Sports… You… Army.” He rolls his eyes, bringing one wet arm up onto the pool deck, water darkening the bricks below. “I used to love it. Being under water, I mean. Everything is clear, with goggles on – and time slows down. But after Afghanistan…” Tony shrugs, shoveling cold eggs into his mouth. 

Steve pauses, setting the sketchbook down on his lap. “Weren’t you in the desert, though?”

Tony looks at him with raised eyebrows, fork still in his mouth. “Yes. They tortured me, Cap. Didn’t you read that in my S.H.I.E.L.D. dossier? I didn’t spend my entire time there building my first suit like it was Build-A-Bear-Workshop. They did all kinds of things, a lot of it I don’t really remember.” Tony closes his eyes for a moment, recalling Pepper’s scream of his name – he remembers that clearly. “But their favorite was waterboarding. And God, the water was cold. I had a car battery hooked up to my chest, all sorts of exposed wiring, and I never once was shocked when they dumped me in. I used to hope that today would be the day, you know, that someone dropped the battery in the water and I just got fried. But it never happened, and when I got back home, I couldn’t take a shower for days. I still can’t get my face wet for too long, or I… I don’t – it’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” Steve swallows. “I didn’t know, Tony." 

“Well, I’m glad you minded your business and didn’t go nosing through my files. My Social Security number is in there, you could have committed all sorts of identity theft.” Tony shoves a piece of toast into his mouth, taps his reactor, and returns to the water. 

They spend the rest of the morning and afternoon by the pool, Tony swims for hours, never ceasing even when Steve offers him lunch. His drawing of Tony is complete by the time he climbs out of the pool, and Tony glances at it as he passes by, rubbing a towel through his hair. 

“You forgot the helmet,” he comments, pointing at the picture of his head. Steve has captured him, though, he’ll inwardly give him that credit. The curve of his jaw is sharp, his eyes are shadowed, and the reactor glints on his chest. Tony squints at the drawing, making out the dog tags on his chest. He reaches up and touches the necklace with a grimace. “Not bad, Rogers.”

Steve grins, closing the sketchbook and looking over at Tony as the other man sprawls out on the deck chair. 

“Can I get you some lunch now?”

Tony shakes his head, nanites forming into a pair of sunglasses that he puts over his face. “Nope. I’m gonna tan – and nap. You can eat though, Cap, by all means.”

Steve doesn’t get up from his chair, instead, he watches Tony as he tans. The sunlight catches the beads of water on his chest, and Steve’s eyes follow them as they trail down Tony’s abdomen, glinting in the curls of dark hair that spread down below his navel, and are eventually absorbed by the fabric of his Speedo. He watches Tony even after he’s fallen asleep, mouth slightly agape as he snores. Tony is a restless sleeper and he tosses and turns on the chair almost violently – Steve reaches out and rests his hand against Tony’s shoulder, making sure he doesn’t fall off the chair. Tony grumbles in his sleep, leaning in to Steve’s touch, but Steve pulls his hand away. 

By the time Tony wakes up, he’s got quite the tan – and a bit of a sunburn on the back of his neck. He yawns, blinking his eyes open behind the sunglasses, and frowns when he sees Steve.

“It’s creepy. Do you blink?” 

“I do,” Steve blushes, looking away. “I – Well, Tony, I came here to spend time with you. I wasn’t just going to sit inside and watch television when I could sit out here with you.” 

“Ugh,” Tony sighs as he sits up properly, stretching his arms over his head. “The stuff you say is sickeningly sappy sometimes, Steve. Like… I’m literally nauseous.”

“Probably because you skipped lunch.” 

Tony gets to his feet, offering Steve his hand to pull him up off the chair. Steve takes it, breathing in deeply at the contact, Tony’s fingers curling around his wrist before he lets go.

“I did. Tell you what, I’ll make dinner.” 

“You cook?” Steve grimaces as Tony walks in front of him, the back of his neck painfully red. 

“My mom taught me,” Tony says casually, making his way over to his bedroom so that he can change. Steve is thankful for that, he doesn’t think he can keep his desire in check were Tony to walk around the house in just his swimsuit. “A few recipes, anyways. Did you shop?” 

“I did,” Steve says through the door as Tony shuts it between them. “I got some bits and pieces, though, nothing major… I thought we’d go out to eat.”

“Are you telling me that you don’t want me to cook?” Tony laughs, and Steve rests his forehead against the door at the sound. “Believe me, Steve, my desire to poison you has lessened a tiny bit since yesterday. I’ll take a bite off of your plate before you eat so you can be sure of your safety.” He opens the door, taking half a step back when he sees that Steve is standing in the doorway. “Anyways. Ross is breathing down my neck,” he squeezes past Steve, doing his best to ignore the fluttering in his chest at the close contact. “I can’t afford to be seen eating dinner with a not-blonde but maybe-blonde if you squint muscular looking guy.” 

Steve follows Tony to the kitchen, taking a seat at the counter as Tony starts to rustle through the fridge. He pulls out the scallops and shrimp Steve had bought that morning, eager for fresh seafood caught less than a mile from their door.

“This’ll do,” Tony mutters to himself, opening up a cabinet and pulling out a box of pasta. He frowns, shaking it. “It would be better fresh.” 

“You know how to make fresh pasta?” Steve can’t stop himself from asking, he wonders if Tony will ever stop surprising him.

“Mom was Italian,” Tony replies, shaking his head at Steve. “Of course I know how to make pasta. It’s a cakewalk.”

Tony lapses into silence, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowed as he concentrates. Steve stays silent, not wanting to interrupt Tony as he thinks – he can picture a file cabinet in Tony’s brain, filled to the brim with yellowed recipe cards, the neat script of Maria Stark flowing over them. 

Steve admires Tony’s profile as he cooks, the way his jaw sets, the curve of his nose. He moves with a quiet confidence through the kitchen, never second guessing himself as he tosses ingredients onto the pan. He idly wonders how many relationships Tony has been in during which he’s allowed himself to cook for his significant other. Pepper, for sure – and now Steve. Soon, Tony is humming under his breath, a slight smile on his face as everything seems to be coming together. Steve has seen this expression before, but only when Tony was working on a suit – always working. 

“Voila,” Tony says with a flourish, placing the bowl of pasta and seafood in front of Steve. “I tried to go light on the spice for the sauce, didn’t want your head to explode.”

“My palate isn’t that underdeveloped,” Steve complains, though he takes the fork Tony’s offering him anyways. 

“Steve,” Tony climbs up on the stool beside him, and Steve takes a huge mouthful of pasta to hide his grin when he notices Tony’s feet dangling off the ground. “You come from a time where anything beyond stale bread was a luxury. I don’t begrudge you that, I’m just making sure you take baby steps.” 

The pasta is incredible, even if it isn’t fresh, and Steve helps himself to seconds while Tony makes his way through his first.

“It’s not as good as when my mom makes it,” Tony sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. He reaches behind to the back of his neck and prods his sunburn, a hiss of air escaping between his gritted teeth.

“Hang on, I’ve got something for that.” Steve slips off of the stool and pads into his bedroom, rooting around through his duffel bag. He had checked the weather, and assumed that he and Tony would spend some time out in the sun – though his suggestion for a trip down to the beach had died when Tony had told him more of his time in Afghanistan. 

Tony tenses when Steve’s hand passes over the back of his neck, squirming slightly as Steve rubs a cold, slimy substance into his skin.

“Is that lube? Are you rubbing lube on my neck? What the fuck?”

“It’s aloe,” Steve says in exasperation, squirting more out of the bottle onto his palm. “I burn easily, so I brought it just in case. 

“Okay, thanks, then. Thought you were doing something really fucking weird. Like letting me know that you have a sunburn fetish, or something. I was gonna walk out.”

Steve laughs, wishing he didn’t blush so easily at Tony’s cavalier attitude towards sex.

“You can do the dishes,” Tony says with his last bite of food, hopping off the stool and walking back to the sitting room. “Seems only fair.” 

Steve gets to work on the dishes, looking up from the pan he’s scrubbing when he hears slow and hesitant notes coming from the piano. He arches up on his tip toes, craning his head around the wall, and catches sight of the back of Tony’s head – he’s sat at the piano, his hands hovering over the keys, seemingly conflicted. 

He wants to say something, wants to request a song from Tony, wants to let him know that he’d give anything to hear him play – instead, he stays silent, and hopes.

Just as Steve puts away the final bowl, Tony’s fingers begin to dance along the keys. It’s Bach, Steve thinks, or Vivaldi. Quietly, he moves into the sitting room and takes a seat on the couch, content with listening to Tony play as dusk gives way to stars outside. 

“I haven’t played in forever,” Tony murmurs, mostly to himself, his touch light. “Not in years. Feels rusty.”

“It’s beautiful,” Steve says honestly, closing his eyes as Tony’s fingers move swiftly over the keys with more confidence.

* * *

He must have fallen asleep, because the room is dark, and Tony’s lips are pressing to his softly. 

“Tony?” Steve’s hands reach up to brush over the other man’s back, his touch hesitant. 

“Come to bed,” Tony murmurs, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him up off the couch.

“But I thought we – weren’t?”

“We’re not,” Tony says with a smirk that Steve can hear more than he can see. “But I sleep alone a lot these days. I sleep better when you’re there – though I won’t say that in the morning, you can bet your ass.” 

Steve follows after Tony sleepily, not protesting when Tony pulls his shirt up over his head. Tony’s lips press to his bare skin, and he can almost hear Tony’s thoughts with each touch of his lips: _sternocleidomastoid, trapezius, deltoid, pectoralis major._

“I love you,” Steve murmurs in the dark as Tony pulls the duvet up over them, slinging an arm over Steve’s chest.

Tony hums in response, which is better than the usual silence he treats Steve to whenever he says those three words. He presses a kiss to Steve’s lips instead. 

“Night, Steve.”

“Night, Tony.”


	9. Chapter 9

They meet four more times in Paris – and just as Steve shuts the door to the apartment behind him on the fourth visit, Tony is there, kissing him furiously.

“Why would you do that?” Tony snarls between kisses, his fingers digging into the front of Steve’s shirt. “Why would you **do** that?”

The back of Steve’s head smarts as Tony shoves him forcefully against the door, he hadn’t expected this reaction from Tony – in fact, he thought that showing himself as Steve Rogers in Russia would please Tony.

“You idiot,” Tony seethes, shaking Steve by the front of his shirt. “You absolute – you could have been caught! And then what was I supposed to do!?”

“Tony…” Steve can’t get another word out, because Tony is kissing him again – kissing him, and beating his chest with his fists.

“I hate you,” Tony says heatedly, brown eyes so dark that they’re almost black. “I hate you – I shouldn’t have to worry about you getting your dumb ass caught! You think – I know you **know** that I have a lot on my plate.” 

Steve does know that. The past three visits to Paris, he had listened as Tony had curled against his side and recounted his worries about Peter Parker. Something was going on with the boy, something that Tony couldn’t quite figure out – and then Tony had been saddled with a Senate hearing, which Steve had watched the entirety of from his bed in Wakanda.

“Did it get Ross off of your back?”

“What?” Tony asks distractedly as his fingers fumble with the buttons of Steve’s shirt. His rough hands brush over Steve’s bare chest, and he hears Tony exhale slightly.

“When I showed myself in Russia, has Ross been after you since?”

Tony pauses, digging the nail of his index finger into the muscle just above Steve’s ribs. “No. No, he’s not contacted me since. He’s got god-only-knows how many people out there, looking for you.”

“Good,” Steve says as he shrugs out of his shirt, the fabric fluttering to the floor. “That’s what I wanted to happen. I thought it would give you a chance to breathe.” 

Tony pulls his hands away from Steve’s chest, staring up at him, trying to comprehend. “You – You risked yourself, for… ?”

Steve nods, reaching down to unzip his jeans, rolling them down his thighs slowly. Tony glances down at his hands, and then back up at his face, his expression one of furious delight.

Steve grunts as Tony throws himself at him, his lips pressing against his, teeth and tongue – passion instead of anger. Tony’s hands brush down the tops of his thighs, pushing his jeans further down, and Steve almost trips over them as Tony physically pulls him into their bedroom.

“I don’t hate you,” Tony says breathlessly against his lips, “God, I really don’t. Don’t ever do that again.”

When Steve wakes to an empty bed that morning, there’s a note on Tony’s pillow. He picks it up, rubbing at his eyes, Tony’s spikey handwriting swimming into focus. 

‘Do **NOT** do that again or I’ll kill you. Genoa, May 29th. By the aquarium. (My birthday… Bring a gift)’

* * *

Tony breathes in the salty sea air deeply, leaning back in the chair he’s been sat in for at least an hour. He had long since finished the cappuccino he had ordered that morning from the café in the aquarium, and while he’s tempted to get up and get himself another one, he doesn’t want to miss Steve when he arrives. The last time in Paris had been risky, but worth it – if only to make sure that Steve would never risk himself like that again. Tony had left him the following morning without being able to say goodbye, but he had a meeting in Geneva to get to. There, Tony had broached the idea of a pardon with Thaddeus Ross, and it had been quickly shot down – not for all of the ex-Avengers, no, but for Steve Rogers… The powers that be wanted him to be punished, no matter how many times Tony tried to present an alternative.

He sighs, turning his head to look out over the dock. It’s early afternoon, and Steve hadn’t sent him his flight details through a text as he usually did. Tony watches the boats rock with the waves, tensing when a flock of seagulls fly overhead. _You are not shitting on this outfit._ Luckily, he escapes unscathed. 

Tony jumps when the table he’s sat at is nudged forward, a fresh cappuccino and paper cup of gelato placed in front of him. He looks up in surprise, and Steve kisses him so quickly that it’s over before he can protest. 

“Happy birthday,” Steve grins at him from across the table, nudging his foot against Tony’s. “Wanted to surprise you.”

Tony reaches up to rub at his lips with his fingers for a moment, glowering at Steve, but his scowl transforms into a grin. “You did that. Congrats, Cap.” He sits up straight, reaching for the gelato. “Wow, my favorite flavor – who told you?” 

“You did. Can’t remember when. You were just talking, and talking.” Steve picks up Tony’s empty paper coffee cup and rolls it between his palms. “I love it when you do that.” 

Tony gives him a look as he takes a bite of the stracciatella gelato, exhaling softly. Steve hasn’t been keeping up with his hair dye, he notices, his roots are practically golden in the sunlight. The beard is still there, unfortunately, Tony misses Steve’s smooth jaw – he had only been able to run his lips over it once. 

“Read something crazy,” Steve says, crossing his arms over his chest, watching Tony eat his gelato. “Something about the Tower getting sold.”

Tony grimaces, “Yeah. I sold it. Strapped for cash.”

“Really?” 

“No, you moron. I sold it because I didn’t need it anymore. Pep found her own apartment in the city – we split the cash fifty-fifty, she helped me build it, so.” Tony shrugs. “I’ve got the compound now. The compound…” Tony frowns, picking up his fresh cappuccino. “I’d like to sell it, too. We need to downsize. With only three active Avengers…”

“The kid said no, then?” Steve is surprised by that – Tony had been so excited to offer Peter a spot on the Avengers roster, he had made the kid his own suit.

“Ah…” Tony takes a large gulp of coffee. “Yeah, he said no. Did you hear about what happened with Toomes?”

Steve nods. “Was the kid alright?” 

“A little worse for wear. I wish he’d told me. And I’m worried that he did, and I don’t think I was listening to him.” Tony shakes his head. “Just goes to show that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” 

“Aw, come on, Tony. You’d be a great dad.” Not that Steve would ever admit it, but he had daydreamed of a reality in which he and Tony had a kid. They’d call Tony ‘Dad’, and him ‘Pop’ – it was the perfect fantasy world for Steve to lose himself in as he prowled around the gym in an effort to keep himself busy. 

“No I wouldn’t,” Tony says, clearing his throat. “I hate children.”

“Tony,” Steve chides. “You’ve practically adopted Peter Parker. What about that kid in Tennessee. Harold?”

“Harley,” Tony corrects quickly, and then winces – he’s proving Steve’s point. “Anyways, it doesn’t matter. Pete’s okay, but he wants to stay a little low to the ground.” Tony frowns. “Bad phrase. I mean, he just wants to keep to his neighborhood. I told him that’s fine, of course it is. When I heard about what happened – I – You know, if the kid died…” 

Steve reaches out, touching the back of Tony’s hand briefly. “But he didn’t.”

Tony looks down at where Steve’s fingers are brushing over the veins on the back of his hand slowly. The pad of Steve’s thumb brushes over a scabbed-over cut on the knuckle of his middle finger, Steve is used to these workshop accidents that riddle Tony’s body with bruises, cuts, and scrapes.

“Yeah, but next time -.” 

“You said it yourself, Tony, he’s staying low to the ground. What’s the worst that can happen in Queens?” 

Tony pulls his hand away, attacking his gelato with renewed vigor. “You’d be surprised.”

Steve watches him eat, grinning when Tony screws up his eyes, evidently suffering from a brain freeze. “So, birthday boy, what are our plans?” 

Tony shrugs, setting his spoon into his now empty cup. “I booked us a hotel room for tonight. I don’t have to leave until tomorrow evening, so…” Tony shrugs again. “I’m sure we’ll find something to do.” 

Steve thinks of the ring box in his right pocket, he bought it shortly after the last time he’d seen Tony in Paris. It had caught his eye in a window as he had walked down the street in search of breakfast – the ring was subtle, a beaten silver band. He had bought it on a whim, imagining it on Tony’s left hand. It’s Tony’s birthday gift, and he’ll give it to him before the other man leaves – but he has to find the right time. 

“You want to go into the aquarium?” Steve jerks his thumb over his shoulder, children squealing in delight as they run ahead of their parents into the building.

Tony’s expression is suddenly wistful. “I came here with my mom, when I was a boy. She’d get a coffee, I’d get a gelato… I used to love that aquarium – I’d spend ages in the shark tunnel.” He shakes his head slowly, “But I’ve grown up, and she’s not here. So, no, Cap. I won’t spend my forty fifth birthday at the aquarium. How about we just go for a walk? We can stop at the hotel so you can put your bag in our room. Thing probably weighs fifty pounds.” 

Tony gets to his feet, gathering up his garbage. He glances at the bulge in Steve’s pocket, and Steve freezes, his heart suddenly pounding.

Brown eyes scrutinize him, and Tony’s lips press together firmly, but he doesn’t question Steve. _Yes, it seems to be in the shape of a box – but it could be anything._

Steve walks alongside Tony down by the port, his arm brushing against the other man’s gently, as much contact as Tony would allow them in public.

“You know, Steve,” Tony says as he opens the door to the hotel for them, the lobby quiet. “Something’s up.” 

“What do you mean?” Steve jabs the button for the elevator, waiting for the doors to slide open.

“I don’t know…” Tony sounds far away, his hands in his pockets. “I’ve just got a weird feeling, you know?” 

“About this?” Steve steps back to allow Tony into the elevator. The moment the doors slide shut, Tony’s hands cup his face, his lips pressing to Steve’s softly.

“No, not this, you idiot. Something else. I can’t put my finger on it.”

Steve frowns, Tony’s hands slipping down to grab at his bicep, leading him down the hallway to their room. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony decides, opening the door. “I think I’m just having an existential crisis due to my continuing age.”

Steve laughs, setting his duffel bag down on the bed – Tony had arrived the night before, and had already made a mess of it. He straightens one of the pillows idly, looking over at where Tony’s standing at the balcony with his back to him. Steve carefully reaches into his pocket and slides the ring box under the pillow.

“Don’t kid yourself Tony, you’re gorgeous.” 

Tony turns back to face him, grinning. “That’s right, I am. I expect you to say nothing but that for the next twenty four hours.”

Tony doesn’t push him onto the bed, which surprises Steve – their time apart usually leads to undeniable desire that results in them tangled up together in the sheets before they can think of doing anything else. Instead, he silently takes Steve’s hand, and leads him out of the room.

“Where are we going?” Steve asks as they step out of the elevator and into the lobby, Tony’s hand falling away from his.

“On a walk,” Tony says with a guarded smile. “I don’t know where. It’s beautiful out, it’s my birthday, and I want to walk.” _With you_.

It’s something so simple, and intimate – and dangerous. Whenever someone looks at Steve for a moment too long as they walk down the narrow streets, Tony gets anxious, imagining a SWAT team armed to the teeth riddling Steve’s body with bullets.

Steve seems completely oblivious, occasionally pointing out some aspect of a nearby building that catches his artistic eye. 

Steve is surprised when Tony pulls him into a quiet cathedral – not as ornate as some of the ones they have passed on their walk. Tony quickly crosses himself with holy water by the door, looking over at Steve with a frown. 

“You don’t have to come in, I’ll just be a minute.”

“I didn’t know that you’re -?”

“I’m not,” Tony says quickly, keeping his voice low. “I’m definitely not, are you kidding? But my mom was. She used to come to this cathedral to pray whenever we were in Genoa. So, when I’m in town, I stop by – and I…” He frowns, and Steve loves him so much that he feels as though he might burst. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Steve watches Tony for a few minutes, watches as Tony lights a candle and sits down at the edge of the aisle seat in front of the altar. He turns away when Tony bows his head, not wanting to intrude on something that feels incredibly private. 

When Tony returns to where Steve is standing by the doors, his brown eyes are glossy with tears. Steve offers him a handkerchief from his pocket, and Tony makes a face, one that says _of course you carry one of these._ He quickly wipes his eyes and shoves it back into Steve’s hand, before dragging him out the door. 

“C’mon, let’s get dinner. They invented pesto here, you know.” Tony gives him a cheery grin, bumping his shoulder into Steve’s. “They invented pesto, and this is where the Black Death entered Europe. Fitting, no?”

* * *

“Marry me,” Steve murmurs into Tony’s ear, the other man crying out beneath him as he comes. Steve follows not long after him, closing his eyes and allowing himself to get lost in the pleasure that washes over him – frantic, hot, and perfect.

“Marry me,” he repeats, Tony stirring against his chest. He feels Tony’s lips form a frown against his skin, and watches as he lifts his head up to look at Steve. Steve reaches up and brushes his fingers through Tony’s dark, messy curls, still damp with sweat. 

“What?” Tony stares into his eyes, analyzing him down to the core. “What did you just say?”

“I said…” Steve’s fingers slip away from Tony’s hair, down his neck, dog tags jingling as he plays with them idly. “Marry me.”

“Absolutely not.” Tony’s answer is instantaneous, and the words are sharp. “I don’t believe in marriage. I won’t marry you, or anyone.” 

Tony’s expression softens when Steve reaches under the pillow and reveals the velvet ring box. It pops open, and Tony reaches out for the silver ring despite himself.

“Try it on,” Steve suggests, watching Tony pick the piece of jewelry up, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t…” Tony swallows, looking away from him. “C’mon, Steve. Wake up.” 

“I woke up a while ago, Tony. This is what I want.” 

Tony laughs, humorless. He slides the ring onto his left ring finger, holding it up against the light of the bedside lamp, examining it. It fits perfectly.

“Steve… Seriously. I’m not marrying you. I’ve seen what marriage does to people. The only person I’ve ever known who has been truly, deeply, happily married was Peggy.” 

Steve swallows, and he almost snaps at Tony, almost tells him how unfair it is to mention Peggy to him while they’re both naked in bed. It’s like a betrayal of her memory, but he knows that Tony won’t see it that way – because Tony had told him time and time again how happy Peggy had been while married to Daniel Sousa.

“What makes you think this won’t work?”

“Steve.” Tony says in utter exasperation, pushing himself off of him. Steve watches as he climbs out of bed on unsteady legs, staggering into the bedside table before he rights himself. “Steve, you’re a **fugitive.** We can’t even – legally – get married while that’s happening.” Tony holds up a second finger, ticking each reason off as he goes. “Secondly, I think you’re mistaking distance for deeper feelings.”

“I love you,” Steve argues. Tony gives him the wounded look he’s taken to making in response to Steve saying that.

“I don’t think you do, Steve. You love this,” he gestures between them, continuing to pace at the foot of the bed. “And yeah, the sex is phenomenal. And we talk, and that’s good. And we kiss – probably a bit too much, considering what we’re both really here for. And you know, maybe in another reality, if you weren’t so stubborn – yeah, maybe we would, _potentially_ , get married. But not in this reality, Cap.” He rests his hands on his hips, drumming up confidence from somewhere Steve would never be able to find, considering he’s completely naked.

“C’mon, Tony.”

“I’m not marrying you.” 

“Keep the ring?”

Tony shakes his head, sighing. “Christ, Steve.” He moves over to the balcony, parting the curtains so that he can look down at the street below. “It’s like you don’t hear me.”

“I do hear you,” Steve insists, climbing out of bed. He wraps his arms around Tony’s waist, holding him close, the night’s cool breeze playing over his warm skin. “I hear you, Tony.” His lips press to Tony’s neck, feeling his pulse quicken at the touch. “You don’t want to get married. Okay, we won’t get married. But you don’t come here just for sex.”

Tony tenses in his arms, his hand grabbing at Steve’s wrist, ready to pull his hand away from him. Steve’s breath is hot at the base of his neck, his lips trailing over the bruises his teeth had left behind. “No. I don’t just come here for…” The admission makes him nauseous, because it’s too honest – too open. He doesn’t just come to Steve for sex – it has never just been for sex, as much as he tried to deny himself. 

“Keep the ring?” Steve asks again, his voice low. 

Tony glances down at his hand, thinking it over. In another reality, he would have said yes – but perhaps in that reality, Siberia never would have happened. In that reality, maybe he and Steve would have gotten together at the start. This reality is too messy, there’s too much between them for Tony to ever imagine anything beyond what they’re doing now to work. A long distance relationship, fine. Meeting in secret, fine. But being married to Steve Rogers? Impossible. 

“Fine, I’ll keep the ring. I’ll just pretend that it’s a birthday present.”

Steve is pulling him back to the bed, and Tony goes willingly. 

“It is a birthday present, in a way.” Steve’s lips are against his, and Tony’s not sure if he wants to punch the grin off the other man’s face, or kiss him til it fades. “One of many parts. You up for part three?” 

“Absolutely.”


	10. Chapter 10

Tony’s heart is pounding, faster than it should be, much faster than it should be. _Now would be a great time to die, really, it would. You’ll probably be dead in an hour anyways._ Sweat trickles down the back of his neck, and Bruce Banner looks at him like he’s not speaking English.

“The Avengers broke up – Tony, what do you mean they broke up?”

Steve had shattered the team with one effortless arc of his shield into Tony’s chest, the reactor shattering with it. The stupid fucking wedding ring Steve had given him in Italy is cool against his rapidly warming skin, clinking against the dog tags around his neck. Tony doesn’t wear it in public, of course not, but he keeps it around his throat instead. _Stupid._

Thanos is coming. Tony walks away from Bruce, Dr. Strange ( _magic, Christ, I hate this_ ), and Wong – walks away so that he can pull the flip phone out of his pocket. He hesitates over Steve’s name, looking down at the screen. Steve eagerly picks up whenever Tony calls with a new location for them to meet at – but will he pick up the phone now? Now, when more is riding on this call than a nice meal and a quick fuck?

Tony knuckles his forehead forcefully, pressing them hard against the skin. This is the nightmare that had plagued him since 2012 – the threat that he will be unable to stop. He needs Steve here, at his side, or they will both fail. _Steve should be here in the first place. He should have foreseen this. He should have believed me._

Tony clicks call, and raises the phone up to his ear, hearing it ring. He looks up sharply at a whistling sound coming in through the doors, looking over his shoulder at the other three men, and then hurries towards the door when he hears screams.

He catches a woman as she falls in front of him, the phone clattering against the concrete. Tony helps her upright, but she pushes him aside the moment she’s back on her feet.

“Wait, what’s going on? Are you okay?” Tony watches her as she hurries away, and then throws himself back against the building as a taxi careens onto the sidewalk. He looks up into the sky, people are pointing at the sky – _why are people pointing at the sky?_

There’s a huge spaceship descending on New York City, and Tony swallows back vomit.

_At least the kid is on a field trip._ Tony thinks as he and the three other superheroes ( _ugh_ ) hurry down the street. _Thank God Peter isn’t here. He’s safe._

“Tony? Are you there?” Steve’s voice is heard by no one, the flip phone half obscured by a sizeable chunk of rubble. “Tony?”

* * *

“I hate children,” he had snapped at Steve months ago, mostly a lie – but now, as he stares at Peter Parker, he thinks that he may have been spilling an inner truth without even realizing it.

“You are absolutely not supposed to be here,” Tony says, grabbing the boy by his shoulders. “You are supposed to be in New Jersey!”

Some Hamilton thing, Tony remembers wildly – Peter had not shut up about the musical for weeks, even after Tony had given him tickets to go see it with Aunt May. He had buzzed in Tony’s ear for hours, excitedly detailing his upcoming school fieldtrip to where Hamilton had been shot. _Morbid. I thought it was morbid._

“Sorry, Mr. Stark – we weren’t even on the bridge yet, and I saw it. I had to come help.” 

“You didn’t.” Tony snaps, and Peter recoils slightly at his rage. _Kid, you can’t die here. Don’t you understand? This isn’t neighborhood stuff. This is a one-way trip._ “You didn’t need to come help, I had it under control. You listen to me, Peter – are you listening?”

Peter nods, his face pale. “Y—Yes Mr. Stark.”

“You are going to **stay** out of this. You’re here, and there’s nothing I can do about it – but you are not going to get involved. I’m going to – you’re going to stay safe, and then I’m going to take you back to Aunt May, and she’s going to ground the shit out of you.”

Peter swallows, nods, and then points over the edge of the platform they’re standing on. “But – What about the wizard?”

Tony’s hands curl into fists at his sides, looking down at where Stephen Strange is currently being tortured. 

“Fine,” Tony says, not believing that he’s allowing himself to put the kid in jeopardy like this. “Just this once, do you hear me? You can help just this once, and then that’s it – I mean it.”

* * *

Tony has been stabbed more times than he can count. Even before Afghanistan, he had sustained the occasional deep laceration from a careless sharp edge in his workshop. Never, in his life, has he been stabbed this deeply. _There goes my large intestine. What is that, left colic flexure? Fatal, no doubt, even with the nano-tech._ The curved blade made out of his own suit plunges deeper, Thanos looking at him almost in pity as the end of the blade punches out of his back. Tony’s feet slip out from under him, but there’s a large hand in his hair, combing through dark curls, and really – _the last person who touched me like that was Steve._ It’s perverse, and terrible, and he shouldn’t be laughing – but he can’t laugh, anyways, because Thanos is plunging the blade to its hilt, and blood pours out of his mouth. _Just my large intestine? Don’t think so. Talk about a fucking complication._

Somewhere off to the side, Stephen Strange is talking to the titan – bargaining for Tony’s life. _No use bargaining, Doc, if you saw what I had going on in here you’d agree that it’s a lost cause._

Tony falls to the dirt as Thanos pulls the blade and his hand away, the green Time stone slotting into his golden gauntlet with ease. Tony gasps, red dust coating his lips, making a sludge on his chin as it mixes with his blood. _He traded my life for an Infinity Stone, and I’m going to die in the next 24 hours._ He tries to laugh, but Peter Parker is at his side in an instant, and for the love he bears the boy (as much as he tries to deny it) he does his best to keep his grip on reality.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter’s voice is strained, trembling hands hovering over the ruined flesh of Tony’s abdomen. “Mr. Stark, you’re going to – what can I do? How can I help?”

There are tears in Peter’s eyes. _I wonder if Steve would be crying too… Steve. Thanos is probably on his way to him right now, and he doesn’t even have his shield._

“Kid,” Tony rasps out, managing to wrap his hand around Peter’s wrist. _I have to get you home to Aunt May._ “It’s gonna be okay, okay? Just help me –…” Tony grits his teeth together, aching body crying out as he struggles to sit upright. “Help me sit up, and then… I’ll fill it with nanites. I’ll be good as new, I promise.” _I have to get you home._

Peter’s arms wrap around him, and he groans as he heaves Tony into an upright position, gasping as a rush of blood flows out over the ruined undersuit. 

“It’s alright,” Tony gasps, though his vision is swimming. “I promise it’s alright, Peter. Just — can you…” _Christ, I’m dying. I’m dying, and Steve isn’t here. If Steve had been here, I’d be alright – this never would have happened. Losing together. Liar._

He manages to hold his right hand over the wound, nanites flowing upwards from his chest to encase his hand in a gauntlet. They flow out of his fingertips and into the wound, incredibly cold, and Tony bites down on his bottom lip at the pain. _There. That’ll keep me going for at least 24 hours. Just have to get the kid back. Just have to get Peter back home._

“Tony…” He whips his head over to the side, focusing his gaze on Stephen Strange, the man sounds incredibly morose – like Tony is dead already. “Tony, there was no other way.”

* * *

Steve runs to him as he staggers down the steps of the Benatar, taking Tony’s right arm as Nebula holds firmly onto his left.

“Tony,” Steve breathes, his hand trembling against Tony’s bicep. _He finally shaved that stupid beard._ Tony lets Steve guide him down onto the grass, lets Steve rest his hands on his shoulders and take a look at him. _You should have died – the kid died because of you. Because of me._

“Tony…” Steve’s fingers brush over the sharp edge of his cheekbone, and Tony wants to fold into the touch – wants to fall on his knees and let Steve catch him. _I’m so tired._

“I — I lost the kid,” Tony manages to hold back the sob that comes with those words, manages to stamp down the almost overwhelming grief that comes when he thinks of Peter Parker disappearing under his hand. _Dust. He was just dust._

“Tony, we lost.” 

_No shit. No shit we lost — you arrogant bastard. If we had faced this together, we would have won. I did this – if I hadn’t gone to you, if I hadn’t been weak. Made of iron, Dad always said – he was wrong. I’m weak. And he knew it. Dad was right._

“I —,” he looks away from Steve, swallowing back vomit. “Pepper — is she…?”

She’s there – copper hair, freckles, Givenchy perfume. Tony melts into her embrace, burying his head against her neck, Pepper’s capable hands there to hold him upright. Steve’s jaw sets – _jealousy, in a time like this, Cap? Jesus._

“Let’s get you inside, sweetheart,” Pepper murmurs, her tears dripping off of Quill’s red jacket. Tony had become increasingly cold on the Benatar, as his body had withered away, leaving him as skin and bones. He swims in the jacket even now, and he’s shivering – though he’s not sure if it’s from the cold or from the adrenaline. 

Steve trails behind them, Tony can hear the man’s heavy footsteps. _He can be quiet when he wants to be. Obstinate when he wants to be – which is all the time._

“Tony…” Bruce Banner blanches at the sight of him as they step into the compound. “Hang on, you need to go to the med bay.”

“No,” Steve says suddenly. “No, we all need to talk.”

Pepper looks over her shoulder at him, frowning. “Steve, can’t it wait?”

Steve shakes his head, and Tony feels himself fading, Pepper lets out a sharp exhalation as he starts to fall. 

“Help, help me, he’s fall—.” 

Steve’s arms are around him, catching him before he can hit the ground, and Tony could weep as he catches a faint hint of Steve’s cologne swirling around him. The smell makes him feel sick. 

When Tony wakes, he’s lying on one of the beds in the med bay. There’s an IV in the back of his hand, and Tony squints at the IV rack beside his head. _What are you giving me, Dr. Banner? None of the good stuff, huh?_ His fingers clumsily probe the raised scar tissue from where Thanos had stabbed him, and pain swells from his touch. _Could do with some of the good stuff._

“Tony.”

_Don’t Tony me. Not now._

“Steve,” Pepper is at his side at the doorway, and Tony can tell by the way her eyebrows knit together that she’s upset – angry, even. “I really think – you heard what Bruce said. Tony needs rest.” 

“He was there, with Thanos, Nebula said.” 

“Why don’t you talk to Nebula?” Pepper snaps, her delicate hands ( _hands that have been in my chest_ ) clench into tight fists. 

“I need to hear it from him.”

“It’s okay, Pepper.” Tony grabs at the sheets, struggling to pull himself upright. “He needs to hear it from me, fine. He won’t like what I have to say – but Captain America wants a debrief. Has to have it now, right Steve? Always asking for too much.” 

Steve turns away from him, and Tony watches the back of his neck flush. _Under his skin._

“We’re all meeting in the dining room,” Steve says, his voice already fading as he walks away. 

“Tony,” Pepper shifts at his bedside as he slings his arm over her shoulders. “Tony, honey, you’re – you need your rest. Please, let Steve have his debrief without you.”

“No,” Tony groans as he struggles to his feet, wanting to come up with some razor-sharp retort to the fact that Bruce Banner is pushing a wheelchair into the med bay for him, but all he feels at the idea is gratitude. “No, I have stuff I need to say to our magnificent leader.”

Pepper is furious, he can tell by the whiteness of her knuckles as she grasps the handles of the wheelchair and pushes him into the dining room.

_Gang’s all here._ Steve, Rhodey ( _thank God_ ), Natasha, Nebula, a raccoon that looks incredibly lifelike for taxidermy ( _who brought the stuffed animal_?), Bruce, Thor, and the new girl who saved his life – Carol Danvers. 

Tony finds his attention straying as Steve gives a thorough debrief, a bowl of soup is placed in front of him – much more interesting than whatever inspiring drivel Steve is coming up with. Tony’s spoon clatters out of his hand and into the bowl when Peter Parker’s smiling face is projected in front of them. _I have to get you home to Aunt May._

What comes next, Tony’s not sure — one minute he’s shouting at Steve, the next, he’s back in his bed in the med bay. This time, his world is hazy, and it doesn’t take a genius to know that Bruce has drugged him. _Sedative. The good stuff. Not the best, but better than nothing._

No trust, he had said. He had called Steve a liar – and wasn’t that the truth? All Steve ever did was lie to him – whether it was about his parents, or his intentions, or loving Tony, or saying that he wants to marry him. _All lies._

Tony starts to pick at the tape on the back of his hand that is holding his newly placed IV steady. _Nice one, Banner. It’ll take me ages to get this off of my skin._

“Tony,” Steve’s voice is soft, the voice he uses when it is just the two of them. The door to the med bay closes behind him, and Tony is dimly aware of blood staining Steve’s suit. Fresh blood. 

“Captain America,” Tony slurs, giving him a sardonic salute. “Need a fresh uniform there, buddy.”

Steve glances down at himself and grimaces, his hands moving to his pockets as he stands at the foot of Tony’s bed. 

“Thanos is dead.”

_There goes any hope of vengeance, huh, Stark? Vengeance for the kid. They did it all without me. Couldn’t wait, could they? Bet it was Steve’s idea._

“Did he care?” 

Steve pauses, “I — In all honesty, no. He achieved what he set out to do. The Infinity Stones are gone — he destroyed them.”

“So that’s it, then,” Tony says quietly, staring more intently at the IV in his hand. “That’s it. They’re dead – all of them.”

“We have to stick together, Tony,” Steve’s hand is on his foot, his touch gentle through the blanket that covers Tony’s body. “As a team – if we stick together, we’ll be able to think of something. We always have.”

“Your optimism is so…” Tony shakes his head, reaching up to rub at his bearded jaw. “You’re still asleep, Cap. Still frozen. It’s time to wake up. This is reality now – it’s just… Death, and emptiness.” 

“We have to keep living, Tony,” Steve moves to his bedside, his hand now resting on Tony’s wrist. Tony pulls his hand away, nausea returning. 

“I won’t.” Tony reaches up, pulling the necklace up over his head, silver ring clinking against the dog tags. He throws it at Steve’s chest with all his might, watching Steve flinch. “I don’t want anything to do with you, Steve, don’t you understand? Everyone is dead because of what happened between us. It’s my fault too, I know that. But you’re responsible just as much as I am. Go. Go, keep living. Keep taking. But not from me. Not anymore. Do you understand?” 

Steve cradles the necklace against his chest, and he can’t bring himself to look into Tony’s eyes, can’t bring himself to argue.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Tony’s words turn sharp, “Get out of here! Go!”

The vitals monitor starts to ring warningly, and Steve looks at him with such desperation – like Tony is taking what hope he had left and crushing it beneath his foot.

“I said leave — fucking leave, get out of here!” Tony reaches behind him to grab his pillow, ready to heave it at Steve’s head, but Steve is already retreating.

“Keep living,” Tony repeats to himself as the door shuts behind Steve. _I killed the kid. I killed him._ “Bastard.”


	11. Chapter 11

The world, having lost so much already, does not take note when Tony Stark disappears. Steve Rogers does. Once every three months or so, Pepper Potts would alert him to a large cash withdrawal made from Tony Stark’s private bank account. Always in big cities – Miami, Seattle, Las Vegas, Dallas, New Orleans – never New York. Steve would throw himself onto the Quinjet the moment Pepper notified him, and he would spend a week in the city Tony had made a withdrawal from, hoping to catch sight of him. Five years had gone by, and he had never seen Tony – no one had heard from him, not even Pepper. The only reason they knew Tony was alive at all was because of these large withdrawals, made on the first of every third month. Steve would watch the grainy security footage on the flight, blue eyes focused on the blurry image of Tony Stark – bearded, with shaggy hair, and always wearing sunglasses. 

Tonight, Steve can’t sleep – which is truthfully no different from any other night. He had attended a grief meeting in the early evening, and had taken the long way back to the brownstone apartment he had bought for himself shortly after Tony had disappeared from the Avengers compound. It had been an exhausting day – leading these meetings always left him feeling empty and cold, and when he came home, the apartment was empty and cold, too.

Steve turns on his side, dog tags sliding over the metal beads as he shifts in bed. Idly, he reaches up to hold them, the silver ring cold against the palm of his hand. He should have gotten rid of these, after Tony had told him that he wanted nothing to do with him – after Tony had made that very clear by disappearing from everyone’s lives. But, he had kept them – because when he closed his eyes, he could still picture Tony sprawled asleep naked in bed with nothing but this very same necklace on.

He runs a hand over his face, feeling the heat of his cheeks against his palm – he doesn’t have the energy to act on these thoughts tonight, these thoughts of Tony – and when he did act on those thoughts, he usually ended up feeling worse than before. He wonders if this is how Peggy had felt for the first few years, wondering if Steve would ever come back. 

Steve closes his eyes, forcing himself to try to rest, and he’s just drifting off when a heavy vibration rumbles through his wooden nightstand. He keeps the flip phone charged – just as he did while he and Tony were meeting in secret – a desperate, quiet hope that Tony would call him. He is the only one to know the number. Steve’s eyes open, lifting his head up from the pillow, squinting at the nightstand in disbelief. The vibration continues. 

“Shit!” Steve almost falls off the bed as he lunges across it, pulling open the drawer of the nightstand with such force that it falls off the rails, contents spilling out on the floor. He grabs the phone from where it sits on top of his sketchbook, flipping it so hard that he’s worried that he’s snapped it in two. 

“Tony?”

“Heeeeeey, Steve….” Tony sounds different – Steve had heard him drunk more times than he had heard him sober, and while he’s slurring his words, Steve doesn’t think that alcohol is entirely to blame. The timbre of his voice is different, too, deeper – like Tony’s aged. Like he’s five years older than when he had last spoken to Steve. 

“Tony.” Steve sits up properly, running his fingers through his hair. “Christ, Tony – Are you…”

“Steve…” Tony breathes, and then he groans loudly, and Steve tenses. “God, Steve – Are you still… Ha… Located in… Good ol’… NYC?” 

Steve climbs out of bed and grabs his sweatpants off the floor from where he had abandoned them, holding the phone tightly with his free hand. “Stay on the phone, Tony, can you do that?” 

“Bastards took my wallet – took everything. They recognized me, Steve, I couldn’t think of any number to call. Just yours.” Tony’s voice wavers, and Steve trips as he puts on his sweatpants – Tony is crying.

“Where are you, sweetheart?” Steve can’t help himself, he needs to soothe Tony – this is just like Christmas on the roof. “Can you see a street sign? I’m coming to you right now. I promise.” He pulls on a shirt and throws on his leather jacket. It’s chilly out, and Tony is now sobbing into the phone – Steve can’t make out what he’s saying. He grabs one of his hoodies just in case, if Tony’s been mugged, he might be down a coat.

“Tony, breathe.” Steve rests his forehead against his front door, keys to his motorcycle dangling from his hand. “Breathe, sweetheart. I’m here, I promise. But I need you to tell me a street, okay?” 

Tony’s breathing grows harsh, and there’s rustling on the other end, like he’s trying to twist out of the phone booth to see anything he can tell Steve.

“108th and Madison,” he grinds out, his voice hoarse. “Christ, Steve, I don’t have any more coins – had to crawl on the ground to get here, God – are you coming? I need you to come Steve, I need you -.” 

The line goes dead, and Steve’s lips curl into a snarl, barely resisting the urge to throw the flip phone at the door and crush it beneath his foot. Instead, Steve throws open his front door and takes the steps down to the street two at a time – the engine of his motorcycle revs between his thighs, and he twists the throttle – he had never seen Tony cry in his life.

It takes two passes of 108th and Madison before Steve finally catches sight of him – or someone that could be him. A body is sprawled out facedown in the beginning of an alleyway, a socked foot visible in the dim circle of light from the streetlight above it. Steve runs over to the shadowed form, hoodie slung over his shoulder.

His hand rests against the man’s back, between his shoulder blades, and Tony takes a stuttering breath. His blood is dark on the grey concrete, and it feels tacky against Steve’s palms as he rolls Tony onto his back. There’s grey in his hair, swooping in from the temples – there’s grey in Tony’s beard. Tony’s brown eyes are unfocused as he stares up at Steve, the left side of his face bathed in blood. 

“Tony,” Steve hesitantly touches his chest – the arc reactor isn’t there. “Tony, did they – take -?” 

Tony shakes his head slowly, a stray tear trickling down the side of his face, cutting a clear path through the blood. “No, no… It’s in my hotel room. Didn’t bring it out with me. Christ, Steve, they had a bat.” Tony laughs, spraying Steve’s hands with a light dusting of blood. “A baseball bat. Can you believe that?” 

“Tony, listen,” Steve’s fingers gently move to cradle the back of Tony’s head, feeling the bones of his skull shifting beneath his fingertips – and that shouldn’t happen, Steve knows that shouldn’t happen. Tony’s skull has always been solid whenever Steve had run his fingers through the other man’s hair, stubborn – impenetrable. “I have to take you to a hospital.” 

“No,” Tony says fiercely, and then he spasms in pain, his fingers digging into the front of Steve’s jacket. “No hospitals,” his voice is weaker. “Just need – a bed. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve murmurs, shaking his head. “I have to. I’ll be with you, I promise. I should call an ambulance.” 

Tony shakes his head now, and there are more tears trickling from his eyes, Steve does his best to wipe them away. “Hate them.” 

“I came on my bike. I don’t want – you’ll… I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“Christ, Steve,” Tony grits out, grabbing at him tighter. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?” Tony’s face pales, even in the dim light. “Alright – maybe – hospital. Let me get up.” 

Tony struggles, getting to his knees, and then he vomits across the sidewalk. It smells strongly of alcohol and blood. 

Steve hooks his arms under Tony’s armpits and hauls him to his feet gracelessly – Tony cries out and slumps against him, nearly falling again. With a grunt, Steve has Tony in his arms, his legs dangling over Steve’s left forearm.

“I think –…” Tony’s voice is muffled against Steve’s chest as he carries him to his motorcycle. He doesn’t cry out when Steve settles him in front of him on the seat, instead, he slumps forward over the handlebars, his blood dripping on the pavement.

“Tony?” Steve turns the keys, motorcycle humming to life, but Tony is still slumped over. He grabs him by the collar of his thin t-shirt, pulling him back to rest against Steve’s chest. The way Tony’s body flops lifelessly against Steve terrifies him, and his trembling fingers press just under Tony’s jaw. There’s a pulse there – thready, weak, and arrhythmic, but there. Steve holds him as tightly as he can risk with Tony’s internal injuries, and speeds to the nearest hospital.

He waits for hours in a tiny waiting room, flipping through an ancient, stained magazine. Tony is featured in it – and Steve catches himself glancing down at the picture of him from time to time as he waits. Tony, ever so suave, leaning up against the door to his office at Stark Industries with his arms crossed over his chest. The light of the reactor is just visible through his fitted suit, and he’s got a smirk on his face. Steve’s fingers trail over the image gently, remembering how the bones of Tony’s skull had shifted pliantly at his touch. A baseball bat. He closes the magazine fast enough that he gives himself a paper cut, and the sting makes his eyes water. That, and the way Tony had slumped over the handlebars like a corpse, his blood soaking through Steve’s shirt.

Steve reaches up with his injured finger and runs it over the stiffened fabric – they had offered him a scrub shirt, he recalls, but he had shaken his head numbly and sat down.

“Captain Rogers?” The door to the waiting room opens, and there’s a young doctor standing in the doorway – Steve sees a hint of Tony’s natural confidence in him.

“Yes,” Steve half rises from the seat, but the doctor is coming to sit with him.

“I’m Dr. Rodriguez, I was lead trauma surgeon on your – friend, Tony Stark. He’s in recovery now, coming up from anesthesia. Our visiting hours have ended, but… I can probably get you in when we go to move him, just for a minute.”

“How is he?” Steve leans forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “How bad…?”

“I’m not going to lie, it was touch and go there for a bit – he had a pretty nasty skull fracture, but we’ve put in a plate… Lots of internal lacerations, do you, uh, happen to know what they used as a weapon?”

Steve swallows back bile, feeling it burn down his throat. “A bat,” he says hoarsely. “A baseball bat.”

The surgeon raises his eyebrows, “Then it’s a damn miracle he got out of there with only a skull fracture and internal damage – usually we see broken limbs.” 

Steve nods, though he’s not really listening. “How long do you think he’ll need to be in the hospital for?” 

Dr. Rodriguez shrugs, “Hard to say. At least a week, at my best guess.” He checks his watch, “Alright – if you’re gonna see him tonight, we’d better make it quick.” He gets to his feet and walks to the door, looking over his shoulder at Steve expectantly when he doesn’t rise from the seat. “Captain Rogers?”

All Steve can think about is Tony sprawled out on the sidewalk, bleeding, without shoes on. They stole his shoes – Steve can’t fathom it. 

The surgeon clears his throat, “Uh – Captain Rogers, sir?”

Steve blinks, hands forming fists between his knees. “Right – yes, I absolutely want to see him.” He gets to his feet and staggers forward, the magazine slipping off of his lap and landing face down on the floor.

Tony is awake, and his head turns slowly towards the foot of the bed where Steve stands. He’s not as small and gaunt as when he had returned from Titan, Steve can see strength in the muscles of his arms as he shifts on the bed – but he looks exhausted. Steve rubs his foot gently through the blanket, hand trailing up Tony’s leg as he moves to stand directly beside him. He pulls his hand away at Tony’s hip, recalling his internal injuries. A thick white liquid drips slowly in Tony’s IV, and Steve hopes Tony doesn’t feel any pain.

“Hey, Tony,” he keeps his voice soft, resting his hand on Tony’s shoulder. One side of his head is wrapped in fresh white gauze, and Tony’s eyes move sluggishly to look at him. There’s an intensity there that Steve wasn’t anticipating, Tony had just been beaten half to death and gone through a challenging surgery, but his grip on Steve’s wrist is strong enough that Steve winces.

“My reactor,” Tony says hoarsely, his voice barely more than a rasp. “Steve – you need – I need… My reactor.”

“Tony,” Steve shifts down so that he’s not looming over the other man, gently stroking the curve of Tony’s jaw with his free hand. “You said it was at your hotel.” 

Tony’s grip on his wrist tightens, and Steve grimaces.

“My reactor – key is in…” Tony turns his head slowly to the other side, there’s a plastic bag containing the clothes he had been brought to the hospital in. “Pocket.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll go get the reactor, I promise. Right after I leave here.” The last time he had held Tony’s reactor in his hands, Tony had thrust it there – and told Steve to hide. 

Tony squeezes his wrist, brown eyes dark. 

“I swear, Tony, look.” Steve pulls his hand out of Tony’s grip, moving over to the bag to dig through it until his fingers find the slippery plastic hotel key. “I’ve got it.” He holds it in front of Tony’s face. “I’ll go straight there, and I’ll be back.”

“Captain Rogers.” A nurse stands at the foot of Tony’s bed, making notes in his chart. “Visiting hours are over.” 

“But I’m his —.” Steve stops himself suddenly, he’s nothing to Tony. He could have been his husband, if the other man had allowed himself to be loved. If he had allowed himself to keep living. 

“We’ve contacted his next of kin,” the nurse says kindly, trying to comfort him. “Virginia Potts? She’s on her way – so he won’t be alone.” 

Steve rarely feels jealous, but he always feels a sharp stab of envy whenever Pepper Potts is mentioned – she’s a lovely woman, to be sure, but she’s been allowed to know Tony in ways Steve had never been allowed to. 

“Hear that, Tony?” Steve looks into Tony’s eyes, though the intensity has faded to a hazy sort of inattention. “Pepper will be here.” Steve glances down as Tony’s fingers play with the sleeve of his jacket, tugging at the fabric. 

“Don’t go,” Tony’s voice is barely more than a whisper, and a flush of shame spreads over his cheeks. Steve’s fingers brush slowly over the warm flesh. 

“I’m sorry, Tony, but I have to. I’ll be back first thing in the morning, okay? I promise.” Steve leans down and kisses Tony’s cheek, the coarse hairs of his beard a new sensation. Steve idly wonders when he had decided to let his perfectly shaped goatee go. 

Tony’s eyes close at the kiss, and his fingers fall away from Steve’s sleeve. Steve gently pulls away, expecting to see unfocused brown eyes staring up at him in hatred – but Tony has fallen asleep. 

It’s raining when Steve steps out into the night, the raindrops heavy and cold against his skin. He takes a shuddering breath, getting his phone out of his pocket. 

He straddles the motorcycle, reaching up to brush a droplet of Tony’s blood off of the shimmering silver of the handlebar.

“Nat? I… It’s Tony – he’s home.”

* * *

Steve makes his way to Tony’s room the following morning, his breakfast roiling around in his stomach. He holds a bouquet of sunflowers in his hand, recalling Tony’s favorite flowers – there was always a vase of them in their apartment in Paris. Steve had not been to that apartment in over five years, whatever sunflowers they had left there had no doubt withered and died. He peers his head in the doorway to Tony’s room, watching sunlight play off of the copper strands of Pepper Potts’ hair.

Tony is still asleep, his mouth slightly agape, and Steve looks away after the briefest glance at Tony’s face – his eyes are blackened, and there’s a nasty bruise creeping down from the gauze on the side of his head.

“Steve,” Pepper says quietly, getting to her feet, her hand brushing down his forearm. “It’s good you’re here. He’s been asking for you.” 

“Really?” Tony doesn’t look to be in a state of asking much of anything. 

Pepper nods, taking the flowers from him to place them in a waiting vase on the table next to Tony’s bed. Her eyes are red from crying.

“He had a bad night – this is the first time he’s slept since I got here. I think they had to give him something – he won’t… He thought he was on Titan for a bit – wouldn’t stop screaming.” Pepper sniffles slightly, rubbing at her eyes. “It was terrible.” 

Steve stands beside Tony, watching as his head shifts slightly on the pillow, a small puff of air escaping through Tony’s parted lips. Steve gently runs the pad of his thumb over Tony’s bottom lip, recalling the many times he had kissed Tony until he was breathless and giggly. It was his favorite thing to do, to reduce Tony to a giggling mess. 

Gently, he tugs the blanket down Tony’s chest – Pepper makes a small noise of protest when Steve pulls Tony’s hospital gown gently by the collar. Steve reaches into his back pocket for the arc reactor, and places it over Tony’s chest, feeling the pull of the magnets beneath his skin.

Tony wakes with a gasp as the reactor snaps into place, brown eyes widening. 

“It’s okay, Tony,” Steve says as he fixes the collar of Tony’s hospital gown, Pepper’s hands trembling as she strokes Tony’s shoulder and gently presses him back down against the bed.

“You’re alright,” Steve repeats, sitting down in the chair next to Tony’s bed, trying to calm the other man. He watches Tony’s hand as it raises, resting against the reactor through the thin fabric over his chest. “I promised you I’d get it for you. I – got the other stuff, too.” A few articles of clothing, nothing more – the hotel room had been rather desolate compared to Tony’s usual opulence – or, previous opulence. The man on the hospital bed is not the same man Steve had known five years ago.

“Thank you,” Tony mumbles, his hand dropping away. “I’m…”

“You’re okay,” Steve bends his head and kisses over the back of Tony’s hand where it rests against the bed, avoiding the IV and the bruised flesh around it. “You need to rest Tony.”

“We’ll be here,” Pepper says softly at the other side of the bed. “I promise, Tony. Rest.”

* * *

Tony rests for over a week, sleeping deeply and rarely talking – Steve and Pepper rarely leave his bedside, even when he’s sleeping. On the eighth day, Pepper leans down and kisses Tony on the forehead, tears trickling down her cheeks.

“I have to go, Tony – I have a meeting in San Francisco. I tried to cancel it, but…”

Tony smiles tiredly, reaching up to brush away her tears. “Keeping my business afloat, Potts?” 

Pepper manages a smile, gently carding her fingers through Tony’s hair, a long curl straightening between her fingers as she pulls her hand away. “You know it, Tony. I’ll call you tonight, okay?” 

Tony catches her hand before she can pull it away, kissing the back of it. “Okay. Go get ‘em, boss.”

Steve nods over the edge of the newspaper to Pepper as she walks out of Tony’s room, still wiping at her eyes with a thin piece of tissue.

“Print media’s still a thing?” Tony asks, reaching out and poking Steve’s newspaper in the center of the front page. “Or do you order it special?”

Steve closes the newspaper and sets it over his knee, frowning at Tony. “How are you feeling?” 

Tony waves his hand noncommittally. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t answer mine.”

Tony laughs quietly, and Steve closes his eyes at the sound. He doesn’t think that Tony has laughed for a long time, it has a creaky quality to it, like he’s locked away all forms of mirth and thrown away the key. 

“I guess I have some explaining to do,” Tony starts off, reaching for his cup of water and taking a long gulp. “I owe you that.” 

“You don’t owe me anything, Tony.”

“But I do,” Tony sighs. “I do — Unless we’re denying our shared history?” 

Steve shakes his head slowly.

“I couldn’t stay,” Tony sets the cup down. “Well, I guess that much is obvious, since you all woke up and I was gone. I just knew I had to disappear – I couldn’t… I was so mad at you, Steve.”

Steve says nothing, though his hands are clasped so tightly together that he wonders if he’s fracturing his own metacarpals.

“I left.” Tony shrugs. “I know you guys were keeping track of me – or at least, Pepper was.” Tony doesn’t look at him, he’s giving Steve an out, a way to deny any interest in Tony’s whereabouts for the last five years. “I made those big cash withdrawals because I didn’t want you guys knowing my every move like you would if I used a card. I floated around – never stayed in one place for longer than two weeks. A lot of the time I helped with rebuilding efforts. Infrastructure’s crumbling, you know? The manual labor was good for building up muscle, and nobody asked any questions when I finally dropped the self-confident, arrogant attitude I’ve been hiding behind since I was old enough to know better.”

There’s a pause as Tony collects his thoughts, idly rubbing the edge of the reactor casing through his hospital gown.

“I made a lot of anonymous donations – to orphanages for children who lost their parents when… I think that was my… I mean, I don’t exactly have a favorite thing about… But, if I had to pick – I made some kids’ lives better. At least I could do that.” Tony’s lips curve upwards, but he’s not smiling. Steve forces himself to unclasp his hands, reaching out to run his fingers over Tony’s forearm. 

“Why’d you come back to New York?” Steve asks quietly, the dark hair on Tony’s arm soft against his fingertips – there’s not much left of him that hasn’t been hardened by years of solitude. 

“Turns out,” Tony clears his throat. “That – uh – resentment is corrosive, and I hate it.” He watches Steve’s fingers brush over his forearm slowly, goosebumps rising in the wake of his touch – like they always did. “I missed you,” he manages to say, it takes a lot of effort, and Steve can tell. 

“Missed me, or missed…?” 

Tony scowls at him, but he doesn’t pull his arm away. “Missed you, you idiot. Of course I missed that too, but that’s not why… I wanted to see you. Found your address. I was just indulging in a little bit of liquid courage before coming to see you. Meant to order an Uber. Got a bit too drunk – those guys must have followed me once I left the bar. They said my name, I turned — no one has called me by my name in a long time – and then, bam, bat to the head.”

Steve moves to pull his hand away, but before he can, Tony’s grabbed it – his fingers lace between Steve’s easily, and he hears Tony sigh.

“Look. I know five years is a long time, and just because I’ve managed to – you know…” He can’t bring himself to say ‘forgive you’, but Steve fills in the blank for him. “Doesn’t mean that you’ve not… uh… moved on.” 

Steve shakes his head slowly, the silver ring burning against his chest like a brand. “I’ve not, Tony. Of course I haven’t. I love you.” 

Tony’s teeth grit together, and he looks away from Steve, his cheeks flushed. “C’mon Steve, it’s been five years.” 

“I’ve had five years to think. Whenever you made those withdrawals from the bank, I always went to look for you. Always.” 

Tony squeezes his hand, turning his head to look at him slowly. “I — Guess I should’ve stuck around longer, then… Uh, listen, Steve.” Tony’s palm is sweaty against his, and Steve can feel his pulse thrumming in his wrist. “I don’t exactly have a place… I was wondering, when I got out, if…” 

“You can stay with me. Of course you can stay with me, Tony.” Steve’s thumb brushes over the backs of his knuckles, feeling Tony’s grip relax, hearing him sigh quietly. “Is that alright?” 

“Yes,” Tony says shortly, still blushing. He smiles, a hesitant smile – but a real one. “More than alright. Thank you.” 

Steve kisses the back of his hand before letting it go. “You’re welcome, Tony. I hear footsteps, probably your nurse wanting you to get out of bed.” 

Tony groans, still smiling. “She’s evil.”

“Mr. Stark,” the nurse says cheerily, “I have your discharge papers – but first, you need to get out of bed!”


	12. Chapter 12

It is like living with a ghost. For the first few days, Steve rarely sees Tony in the apartment at all. He knows the other man is there, because sometimes he can hear shuffling in the second bedroom, like Tony is mindlessly pacing from wall to wall.

One morning, Tony comes out of his room for breakfast, and he’s shaved his beard back into his usual sculpted goatee. Steve says nothing as he slides a sunny-side-up egg onto Tony’s plate. 

“Have you ever cut hair?” Tony reaches up with his left hand to rub at the shaven side of his head, fingers rising and falling with the bumps of his sutures, the metal plate just under his skin.

Steve sits next to him at the counter, pouring Tony a mug of coffee, which the other man begins to drink the minute Steve pulls the carafe away.

“I mean – I have an electric razor…” Steve looks over at Tony curiously. “Don’t you usually get like… three hundred dollar haircuts?”

Tony sets his mug down, finger ghosting around the rim of the ceramic. “I haven’t spent that much on a haircut in five years. But I’m a little shaggy, Steve, and I wouldn’t mind tidying up. I can do it myself, I just – you know, another set of eyes, might be able to even things out.”

Steve reaches out without thinking, his fingers brushing over the shaven side of Tony’s head, Tony’s eyes close at the touch. This is the first time Steve has touched him since the hospital – mostly due to Tony’s self imposed incarceration in the second bedroom. 

“I don’t think we can do anything about this, unless you want me to shave the other half of your head?” 

“Absolutely not,” Tony says quietly, leaning into Steve’s touch slightly. His fingers curl around the edge of the counter as Steve’s fingers card through the long strands of hair on the top of his head that he’s barely held back with some ancient looking gel he found in the bathroom. 

“I can tidy this up, sure. After breakfast?”

Steve pulls his hand away and Tony sighs almost inaudibly, but Steve hears it.

Tony picks up his fork, cutting into his egg with the side of it. He takes a big bite, grinning at Steve. “I’ll be Captain America’s first customer at his barbershop. Will there be a quartet there to serenade me?”

Steve shakes his head, looking at Tony out of the corner of his eye. He has not seen him smile properly since bringing him to the apartment, and even though there’s that haunted look in his eyes no matter what he’s doing, Tony is relaxed – and eating – and out of the bedroom. 

“You don’t want to hear me sing, Tony, I’m tone-deaf.” 

“You’re not,” Tony chuckles, and then looks at him sharply. “Are you?”

Steve laughs and shakes his head, “Not clinically, no, but I’m pretty terrible. I’ll spare you.” 

Once Tony has finished eating, he gathers the plates and moves to the sink. He takes his time washing them, scrubbing intently, brown eyes focused. Eventually, Steve moves to his side, pulling Tony’s red hands out from under the scalding water. 

“It’s time for your haircut appointment, Mr. Stark,” Steve says seriously, wanting Tony to crack a grin – the far away look in his eyes is scary, like he’s back on Titan. Steve knows Tony has nightmares, he can hear him sometimes in the night – sometimes it’s screams, sometimes it’s sobs. Whenever Steve goes to his door and knocks, Tony haltingly tells him that he’s fine, that he’s sorry that he woke Steve up. Tony has a prescription for sleeping pills, which he rarely takes, telling Steve that they make the nightmares worse – and harder to wake up from. 

Tony blinks. He looks at Steve emptily, and Steve wants to reach out and shake him by the shoulders, but he waits.

“My…” He blinks again, eyes narrowing, sudden clarity – Steve relaxes. “Oh, right, my haircut. Where to, Cap?”

“My bathroom, the razor’s in there.” Steve makes his way down the hallway to his bedroom, hearing Tony’s light footsteps as he trails behind him. He’s not as skinny as when Steve had last seen him five years ago, but he’s leaner than before – his biceps are toned from heavy lifting, though, and Steve wants to hear more about the projects that Tony had dedicated five years to. Did anyone ever thank him for his help? 

“You might wanna take your shirt off, unless you wanna get hair everywhere.” Steve is knelt down in front of his bathroom cabinet, digging through medical and cleaning supplies on the hunt for the razor. 

Tony stares at his back, wondering if there’s any ulterior motive in Steve’s suggestion. Likely not, he decides, pulling his shirt up over his head and sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. 

Steve plugs the razor in, opening the small case that comes with it and nudging it over to Tony. “What guard do you… you want?” His eyes are fixed on the terrible scar on Tony’s abdomen, and Tony flushes, looking intently at the options. 

“Uh…”

Steve moves to stand beside the toilet, eyes wandering over the crooked, raised line on Tony’s abdomen. It had sheared through muscle, and Tony’s flesh had done its best to knit itself back together, but it was more than imperfect. Steve’s hand dangles at his side for a moment, and then his fingers stretch and touch the rough skin on Tony’s back. The blade had slid through him – through the entirety of him. Bruce had mentioned it briefly, but in the moment, Steve had been so focused on Thanos – on vengeance. It didn’t matter to him what state Tony was in – because he had lost Sam, Bucky – countless others. He had been unable to stop Thanos, and Tony had fought him – and Steve needed that intel before searching for the titan again. Steve does not look back on his behavior that day fondly.

“Hurt like a bitch,” Tony says casually, fingers playing with the various plastic guards on offer while Steve’s hand brushes over his back. “Don’t recommend getting your guts reorganized courtesy of a sword. In case you were wondering.”

He selects a guard and slots it on top of the razor, holding it up to Steve. 

“You might want to like – start out with some scissors. Do you have scissors?” 

Steve pulls his hand away from Tony’s rapidly warming skin. “I have… kitchen scissors.”

Tony winces, “Do you remember the last thing you used them for?”

“Uh… The other night, when we had chicken, I cut the packet open with them.”

Tony rests his forearm against the counter and buries his face against it with a melodramatic groan. “I should have gone to the hairdressers.” 

“I have nail scissors,” Steve says brightly, tugging open a drawer.

“That’s worse, that is much worse. I’ll just have to close my eyes while you use the kitchen scissors — just make sure you cut evenly.” 

Steve leaves Tony where he’s sat on the toilet, pressing the button of the clippers off and on idly, the machine vibrating in his hand. He takes two minutes to wash the kitchen scissors with soap and hot water, scrubbing almost as intensely as Tony had done with the dishes.

By the time he’s returned to the bathroom, Tony’s hair is sopping wet and dripping everywhere – judging by the trail of water from the sink to the toilet, Tony had dunked his head under the faucet. 

“Had to wash out the gel,” Tony says as he slings Steve’s towel over his shoulders, the soft fabric brushing over the reactor where it glows on his chest. “Wanted to give you every opportunity to not fuck this up.” 

Steve holds the scissors above Tony’s head, his hair slipping between the teeth of the comb that Steve runs through it. Tony holds his breath as the scissors snick through his hair. 

Tony eventually raises his hand to cover his eyes, fingers curling against his skin as Steve drags the razor through his hair. He can feel long curls of it flutter against his chest and back as they slip off the towel.

“God, Tony, you have a lot of hair.” Steve’s fingers gently massage his scalp as he works, shifting as Tony sags against him. 

Tony’s hand drops away, and he presses his face against Steve’s abdomen as he stands in front of him, his arms idly reaching up to wrap around Steve’s waist. 

“Tony, you’ve thrown my angle off,” Steve says in exasperation, reaching down to nudge Tony’s head away.

“Looks like you’ll have to improvise,” Tony’s voice is muffled against the fabric of Steve’s t-shirt. “You’ve got to be almost done, this is taking forever.” 

Steve sighs, passing the razor over the back of his head one more time, wanting to make sure it’s even. He had cut the hair on the sides shorter than the hair on the top of Tony’s head, which he was proud of – usually when he cut his own hair, he buzzed it all down to the same length for simplicity’s sake. 

Gently, his fingers curl under Tony’s now smooth jaw, tipping his head away from his abdomen. Tony’s proximity to him had been distracting, and arousing. His breath had been hot, Steve’s skin had heated in response to it ghosting through his shirt. 

“All done,” Steve says as he steps back and puts the razor on the counter. “Take a look.”

Tony gets to his feet, and all of the hair collected on the towel falls to the tile floor. Steve groans, running a hand over his face. He’ll have to dig the vacuum cleaner out of the closet. It will take forever to vacuum up every strand, the vacuum was ancient and struggled to suck up anything at all. 

Tony stands in front of the sink, leaning forward over the edge of it to inspect himself in the mirror. He runs his fingers through his hair slowly, pushing strands of it away from his forehead. His hand drops away from the top of his head, fingertips brushing over the dark bags under his eyes, the wrinkles that crinkle the corners of them. At some point, he had aged. 

“Well?” Steve asks anxiously, his arms crossed over his chest. “I mean, hair will grow back, Tony… You can cut my hair, if you want to get revenge. Totally understand." 

Tony turns to face him, leans up on his tiptoes, and presses a soft kiss to Steve’s cheek. “Thank you,” he murmurs, before pulling away and slipping out of the bathroom.

Steve hears the door to the bedroom shut behind him, slowly reaching up to touch where Tony had kissed him, his skin warm. He smiles to himself, gathering up the clippers and the kitchen scissors. 

“Not bad, Rogers,” he says to his reflection. 

* * *

Weeks pass. Tony heals, and slowly starts to spend more time out of the bedroom. Steve had peered in it once when Tony was in the bathroom, expecting to see a new Iron Man suit already standing at attention. All he saw was a neatly made bed and a notebook on the nightstand beside it.

People come to visit them, and once Steve hears how hard and deep Tony laughs when Rhodey stops by and cracks a joke, he makes plans to have someone visit them weekly. Tony and Natasha in particular seem to have productive discussions, though Tony is reserved after she leaves, far away. He’s grieving, Natasha had told Steve quietly in the kitchen. He’s worried that you’ll ask him to leave – that had been a new revelation, one Steve didn’t understand.

He didn’t try to initiate things with Tony, he didn’t want to ask too much of the other man – he had learned his lesson. Sometimes, though, Tony’s kiss to his cheek would linger, or he would rest against Steve’s chest while they watched a movie. Steve can tell that Tony wants more, that Tony is resisting the urge to kiss him over breakfast or pull him back into the second bedroom – he’s punishing himself for what happened on Titan, denying himself any happiness that would last longer than a few moments.

One morning, Steve steps out onto the front stoop of the apartment, keys to the motorcycle in his hand, and nearly falls down the steps when he sees Tony knelt on the sidewalk. Tony is surrounded by every single part of Steve’s motorcycle, down to the leather seat. His hands are covered in oil, and there’s a nick on his forearm dripping blood, but Tony doesn’t seem to notice. His teeth are grit together, muscles shifting in his forearm as he twists the socket wrench in his hand, and he pumps his fist in quiet victory when a bolt finally comes loose.

“Tony — my bike!” Steve says in horror. “What the hell are you doing to it?”

Tony jumps, wrench clattering across the sidewalk, and he shades his eyes as he looks up at Steve. “Oh, Christ, I thought you were sleeping.”

“It’s noon!”

Tony glances at the sun, squinting against it. “Is it? Oops. Don’t worry, Cap, I’m just… Making improvements.”

Steve sinks down onto the bottom step, his knees going weak. “Tony, the bike ran fine. It ran fine.” 

“I’m making it better than fine,” Tony returns his attention to the engine, and Steve watches as the muscles in his shoulders and the back of his neck shift, fluid and effortless. “It’ll run smoother. C’mon, Steve, are you really doubting my mechanical prowess?” 

“No,” Steve shakes his head, resting his hands on his knees. “I just wish you found someone else’s motorcycle to work on.” 

“You want me to steal some poor sap’s bike? Captain America, that’s immoral!” 

Steve shakes his head again, raising an eyebrow at Tony’s back. “You seem jumpy.” 

“Do I?” Tony looks over his shoulder at him, and the bags under his eyes are darker than ever.

“Did you get any sleep?” Steve asks softly, knowing that Tony might get angry at him for asking – he usually did. 

Tony scowls and looks back at the engine block, “No.”

Steve sighs, rubbing the palm of his hand over the coarse denim of his jeans, over and over again, until his palm tingles. He stays quiet while Tony works, not wanting to distract him – it would be to his detriment if Tony forgot some vital component. He’d rather not have the bike blow up between his legs the next time he took it out for a ride. 

“Tada,” Tony says dryly several hours later, wiping his grubby hands on his thighs as he circles around the motorcycle. “All done. Didn’t lose a single screw. You wanna take it for a ride?”

Steve picks up his keys, climbing off the step – his knees ache, and he must be imagining it – surely the serum would prevent degenerative joint pain. “Sure. Wanna come?”

Tony laughs, shaking his head. “Are you asking me if I want to die? Nope,” Tony pops the p obnoxiously. “I don’t care how safe you say these things are, I’m not doing it.” 

Steve straddles the seat and catches Tony staring at him, watching the other man blush and look away. 

“I’ll be right back,” Steve says, twisting the throttle, the engine roaring at his touch – maybe Tony had improved the bike… 

Tony climbs the steps to the apartment, leaning against the half-wall that surrounded the stoop. He swallows and rubs his hand through his hair as Steve takes off down the road. He is jumpy, it’s true – because his lack of sleep has given him a crazy idea, one that he’s afraid to ask Steve for permission to complete. _Can I sleep in your bed tonight?_ It sounds pathetic, worse than that, it sounds… childlike. But, Tony can’t think of an alternative. His world feels sluggish and backwards, and he had nearly lost more than a bolt out of the engine as he had taken it apart – though he would never tell Steve that he had nearly flooded the engine with coolant instead of gasoline – he had mixed the lines up. He needs a decent 8 hours, that’s it – after that, he would be fine for several days without. Natasha keeps texting him, which is annoying – **Have you asked him yet? Have you asked him yet? He’ll say yes, Tony, just ask.** She’s right — maybe — but what if she isn’t? What if Steve laughs when he asks? 

He blinks as Steve pulls up to the sidewalk, and he’s grinning from ear to ear.

“Hot damn, Tony, what did you do to it?”

“Made it run smoother,” Tony says, fidgeting hands shoved into his pockets. “Not bad, huh?”

“Not bad?” Steve takes the steps two at a time, his hands resting on Tony’s shoulders, squeezing. “It’s great! Feels brand new.” 

Tony smiles sheepishly, glancing away. _Hey Steve, can I sleep in your bed tonight?_

Steve’s hands brush down his shoulders and over his arms, and Steve’s grin has faded. “Are you okay?” 

“Wanna go for a walk?” Tony asks instead of answering the question. “It’s a nice day out. We could go to Central Park.”

Steve’s hands move to rest on his own hips, looking at him thoughtfully. “Yeah, that sounds nice. Are you gonna wash up?” 

Tony looks down at his filthy arms and hands and shakes his head slowly. “Doesn’t matter, does it?” 

Steve shrugs his shoulders, “Guess not.” He locks the door to the apartment and offers Tony his hand. Tony hesitates, fisting the fabric of his pocket tightly in an attempt to clean his palm, and then reaches out to take Steve’s hand. 

They walk quietly down the street towards Central Park, and Tony still isn’t used to the silence that has now invaded New York City. He misses the honking horns, the shouted curses, the bright lights. Everything is muted, reserved – everything except… 

He lets go of Steve’s hand as they step onto the main path of the park, reaching out to rub his fingers over the white petals of a hydrangea. He leans in and breathes in the scent of the flowers deeply, until he sneezes. Steve laughs quietly at his side, patting him on the back.

Tony rubs at his watering eyes, sneezing again, and Steve hands him his handkerchief instantly. He wipes his nose with the fabric, soft, clean, and so _Steve._

“Hey,” Tony says as they move back onto the sidewalk. “I want to ask you something.” 

“Sure, Tony,” Steve looks over at him, blue eyes earnest. 

“Do you think — You can say no. In fact, if you say no, you’ll spare me from any further embarrassment, but… Look, I haven’t been sleeping. So, I was wondering —.” Tony grimaces, looking away. “Do you think I could sleep with you tonight?” The words come out in a rush, said on one breath of air, and Tony deflates slowly afterwards. 

Steve could tease him, could say _sorry, what did you just say_? But that would be cruel, and Tony is already cringing away, as if Steve’s rejection will feel like a physical blow. “Course you can, Tony. I won’t even complain if you snore.”

Over Tony’s right shoulder, an imagined mini Natasha Romanoff (wearing devil’s horns, of course) is cheering wildly. _Damn her, she’s good._ He smiles, glancing at Steve shyly.

“I — Well, no promises. If I do get a decent night’s sleep, I very well might snore like… terribly.” Snoring is better than screaming, though, and if Tony wakes without a sore throat, it will be a miracle.

“Like I said, I won’t complain,” Steve takes his hands again as they circle around a pond. “Hey, look,” he points up in a tree and Tony follows his finger. There’s a flash of red amidst the verdant green.

“A cardinal,” Tony says quietly. “Wonder who it is?” 

Steve glances at him and says nothing – he knows what Tony is thinking. Cardinals, representative of lost loved ones. He squeezes Tony’s hand comfortingly, and they move on. 

That night, Tony makes them dinner – and the steak makes his mouth water, Tony had cooked it to perfection. Steve has missed Tony’s cooking, he’s only had a meal here and there prepared by the other man. After the hospital, he had offered to cook, but Steve had insisted that he would take care of it – take care of him. They chat across the dinner table, Steve laughing at Tony’s jokes, Tony listening to Steve’s stories of Brooklyn and the war.

After dinner, they wash the dishes side by side at the sink, Tony can scarcely breathe at Steve’s proximity. _You’re just going to bed, you moron. Christ. Sexually frustrated much?_ Then again, he had endured a five year long dry spell. There had been opportunities, yes, and he had almost given in – but in the end, they were never Steve Rogers, and he was never truly interested.

When Tony emerges from Steve’s bathroom, skin still damp from the shower, he almost chickens out when he sees Steve already in bed. Steve has the comforter drawn up to his chin, and he’s reading the morning’s newspaper that had been neglected after their busy day out of the apartment. His blue eyes are focused, tongue poking between his lips, occasionally licking his ink-stained thumb to flip the page.

_I should go put on pajamas._ Tony is standing in the middle of Steve’s room in a pair of black briefs that seem too tight, too suggestive. He’s stood naked in front of Steve before, lain naked beside Steve, hell – Steve had seen every inch of his body. Kissed every inch of it. _I’m being stupid._

“Anything earth shattering?” Tony pulls back the comforter to slide into the bed beside Steve, but he’s not fast enough. Steve’s eyes travel down from his face, to his chest, to his abdomen, lower – lower – and then back up to his face in a flash. He’s blushing, Tony realizes, and Tony isn’t. _That’s a nice change._

“Uh, no, actually.” Steve shifts the newspaper between his hands, looking back at the print while Tony gets comfortable next to him. “Just reading up on the Series.” 

“Put any money on it?” Tony yawns, barely covering his mouth with his hand. 

“A couple of bucks on the Sox,” Steve replies, grinning when Tony snorts. 

“I can’t believe you betray the Yankees like that,” Tony shakes his head, pulling Steve’s comforter up over his shoulders. 

Steve carefully closes the newspaper and sets it on his nightstand, reaching out to turn off the lamp and plug in his cell phone to charge. “Can’t help it. You don’t even care about baseball.” 

“I don’t, but I’m still offended.” Tony has his hands clasped together, resting over his chest, and the comforter is thick enough that the light of his reactor is completely obscured. Steve has not seen him without it since he returned it to Tony in the hospital. Tony is tense, it radiates off of him, and Steve reaches out to poke Tony in the forearm. “Ow.”

“You going to sleep or pretending you’re a mummy?” 

“What are you talking about? This is how I sleep.” Tony grumbles, turning to look at Steve in the darkness, just able to make out his profile if he squints. 

“No wonder that you’re not getting any, then, looks uncomfortable as hell.” Steve scoots over on the bed, his arms wrapping around Tony’s waist, pulling the other man close to him. 

Tony closes his eyes, resting back against Steve, bending his legs so Steve’s can fit behind his. Steve is wearing sweatpants and a shirt, thank God, or Tony would explode. One large hand rests over his reactor protectively, and Steve’s breath stirs the graying hair above his ear.

“This okay?”

Tony nods slowly, resting his hand over Steve’s. “Yeah. Just don’t kick me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Steve presses a soft kiss just below his ear, and Tony feels the hair on the nape of his neck stiffen – amongst other things. “Night, Tony.”

Tony’s tongue swipes over his dry bottom lip, and his fingers curl against the back of Steve’s hand. “Night, Steve,” he manages, his voice hoarse.

* * *

When Steve wakes the following morning, squinting against the bright sunlight filtering through the curtains, he expects to hear the apartment’s fire alarms ringing shrilly. Something must be on fire, because the bed is burning up – Steve must be holding a furnace in his arms, the heat of it is incredible. He lifts his head sleepily from the pillow, looking down at Tony where he’s curled up with his back against Steve’s chest. The tan skin of his neck is flushed pink, and Steve leans forward, watching the blush as it spreads over his chest. Tony is breathing shallowly, his eyes screwed tightly shut, and Steve notices sweat beaded on the other man’s forehead. 

“Tony?” Steve asks carefully, his hand shifting over Tony’s side. Tony tenses at the touch, exhaling sharply between gritted teeth.

“Christ,” Tony mutters, keeping his eyes closed. “Just – go back to sleep, Steve.”

“Do you have a fever?” Steve presses closer to him, his chin resting on Tony’s shoulder. “You’re burning up…” He glances down slowly and his eyes widen, the outline of Tony’s erection is straining against the thin fabric of his briefs. Steve wonders how long Tony has been lying like this in his arms. All night? Surely not. “Oh.” 

“Yeah, oh,” Tony’s voice is tenuous, sounding on the brink of hysteria or frantic, breathless laughter.

“Well…” Steve kisses the curve of his shoulder gently and Tony sighs against the pillow, his fisted hands slowly releasing the sheets that his blunt nails had been tearing small holes into. “Do you want me to…?”

Tony swallows again, Steve can feel his heart racing against his chest, and as he waits, he brushes his fingers over the patch of dark hair just above Tony’s reactor. Tony’s breathing hitches.

“Yes,” Tony says finally, sounding relieved. “God, yes.”

“Okay,” Steve murmurs, his lips brushing over the nape of Tony’s neck, wishing he could see the other man’s face. He presses against Tony again, and grins when the other man grinds back against him. Steve’s fingers brush across his chest, over the cold glass front of the reactor, dancing across a hardened nipple. Tony takes another shallow breath.

“You’re okay, Tony,” Steve says quietly in his ear, Tony is shaking. “I’ve got you.”

“It has been a very, very, very long time,” Tony mumbles, reaching behind him to grab at Steve, pulling him closer. “I’m not gonna – it’s gonna be quick – God…”

“That’s fine, Tony,” Steve murmurs, kissing over the shell of his ear, his hand palming him through his briefs. “You’re fine.”

Tony arches up into his touch with a breathless moan, his hand grabbing at the fabric of Steve’s sweatpants. “Steve,” he gasps as Steve’s fingers dip below the waistband of his briefs.

Steve’s hand wraps around him and Tony’s hips buck at the touch. Half a dozen quick, tight strokes of his hand, and one well-timed twist of his wrist and Tony shudders apart in his arms, gasping his name breathlessly. 

“You’re okay,” Steve repeats, hand still slowly stroking Tony through his orgasm, the other man rocking into his touch. “I’ve got you.” 

Tony’s hands grab at Steve’s wrist where it’s plunged beneath his briefs, fingers stroking over the juts of his wrist bones. He’s breathless and hot and feels incredible. Steve gently eases his soiled underwear down his thighs, fingers brushing along the insides of them, listening to Tony murmur his name. 

He turns in Steve’s arms once he’s naked, pressing his lips to his hungrily. Tony’s trembling fingers card through his hair, shifting so that he’s lying on top of Steve, working his sweatpants down his hips.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs, his tongue pressing past Steve’s lips, running over his teeth, the inside of his cheek, his tongue. “God, I’ve missed you so much.”

Tony looks down between them, his thumb brushing over Steve’s hip slowly, eyes widening. “Jesus, has it always been that big?”

Steve laughs, tipping his head back against the pillow, but his laugh turns into a choked groan as Tony drags his fingers over him slowly.

“Seriously, Rogers, have you been injecting growth hormones directly? This is gonna take a lot of foreplay.”

“Are you complaining?” Steve’s voice is low, his fingers brushing down the bumps of Tony’s spine, running over the curve of his ass.

“Absolutely not,” Tony breathes, kissing him again. “I love your hands.”

Steve’s cell phone starts to vibrate on the nightstand, and Tony glances at it in disgust, returning his attention to Steve’s smooth jaw. Steve does his best to ignore it, instead focusing on the way Tony arches into his touch. Tony’s lips press down his throat, pausing at the necklace – nosing the dog tags and the ring, but he says nothing. 

Steve breathes in deeply, the hair of Tony’s goatee scratching against taut muscle as Tony kisses and licks his way intently across his chest, and then down his abdomen. Tony’s tongue trails over one well defined abdominal muscle, closing his eyes, his hands grabbing at Steve’s thighs to splay them. 

Steve’s phone vibrates again on the nightstand, and he can feel Tony’s groan vibrate against the inside of his thigh. 

“I have to take this,” Steve says breathlessly, apologetically, running his fingers through Tony’s damp hair. “Sorry.” 

Tony nips the inside of his thigh, and then his kisses start to stray higher as Steve picks up the phone.

“Hello?” Steve barely manages to say as his hips rock upward, Tony has a talented mouth, maddeningly so. 

Natasha Romanoff sounds cautiously optimistic, which is a first for Steve since Thanos. “Steve? Scott Lang is here. You’re gonna wanna come hear what he has to say.”


	13. Chapter 13

“What are you doing?” Steve is stressed – Tony can tell, because the other man is snapping at him, and his hands are fisted at his sides. He stares down at Tony where he’s knelt in the dirt, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Tony carefully scoops more grey soil into a small glass vial. “Taking a soil sample, what does it look like?”

“Tony,” Steve mumbles, rubbing his face with his hands. “Tony, sweetheart, we’re not here for soil.”

“I know, Soul Stone, I know. But – I would have done the same on Titan had things not gone the way they did. This is an entirely new planet to me, Steve. Vormir,” Tony drags the word out on his tongue, it feels sharp – dangerous, even – which is ridiculous, it’s just a word.

“It is taking us hours just to get to the top of the cliff,” Steve complains, grabbing Tony’s hand and pulling him to his feet when Tony reaches up and silently requests assistance. “You keep stopping.” 

Tony scowls, putting the vial back into his pocket. “I’m not entirely excited to reach the top of the ominous misty mountain, Steve. Did Nebula even say what’s up there?”

“No,” Steve replies, his hand slipping away from Tony’s as they continue to walk. “Just that her sister disappeared here, and Thanos got the Stone.”

“Where’d she go? Didn’t Nebula say she died?” Tony reaches up and curls his fingers under the collar of the new suit he’s wearing – red, black, and white. Totally tasteless. But they had been pressed for time on the design front, and all it had to do was protect their bodies from the Quantum Realm. Tony doesn’t allow himself to think about the Quantum Realm for any extended periods of time, he finds it entirely infuriating – how can something exist that defies the laws of physics so arrogantly? 

“I – Nebula didn’t know for certain, did she? She might be up there.”

“Bet he shoved her off the edge,” Tony says cheerfully, and Steve shoots him a look. Tony’s expression grows solemn, “Don’t worry, Steve, I won’t shove you off of the edge. Promise.” 

“Neither of us are dying,” Steve replies, Tony can hear the conviction in his voice. 

“Oh, look at that,” Tony gravitates to a particularly impressive looking rock, veined with glowing red. “Look.” 

Steve glances over at it and nearly rolls his eyes. “It’s a rock, Tony.”

“It’s a glowing rock,” Tony corrects, reaching over and shoving it into Steve’s pocket. Steve grumbles, brushing him aside with his shoulder, but he doesn’t bother removing it. “You’ve got more pocket space,” Tony nudges him playfully, “I’ve got too many samples.” 

“Stop.” Steve reaches out and grabs him by the upper arm, squeezing painfully. “Stop, Tony, there’s someone up there.”

“Maybe Gamora didn’t die after all,” Tony suggests, and Steve squeezes his arm tighter. Sighing, Tony looks up at the crest of the mountain, squinting – this place is awfully foggy. He wants to ask FRIDAY to run an analysis on the atmosphere – but Steve is already snippy with him for getting distracted. _Not my fault that a entryway table made out of that rock would look great in our apartment._

“Alright, I see —“ Tony squints harder, “A guy in a cloak. Voldemort? Do you think?”

“Who?” Steve carefully advances forward, his hand still on Tony’s arm, keeping him a few paces behind him.

Tony gasps, “You’re kidding. Voldemort, from Harry Potter? Please don’t say you’ve not read it, or seen the movies… Actually, please say you haven’t seen the movies so that we can binge them when we get home.”

“Shut up,” Steve says, his voice tight. _He’s scared._

“Welcome, Anthony, son of Maria. And…” Tony’s fist strikes Steve’s bicep, jumping out of his skin as the cloaked figure appears before them.

“Jesus, fuck! How did you do that!” Tony massages his chest, looking at Steve, expecting to see him doing the same – but Steve’s face is expressionless. _Wait, no._ Steve’s blue eyes are dark with something Tony’s never seen in them – terror. 

“And…” The figure continues, “Steven, son of Sarah. Well, Captain Rogers, I must say this is unexpected…”

“Schmidt.”

Tony looks to Steve, and then jumps again when the cloaked figure – Schmidt, apparently – removes its hood. “Aw, Christ, that’s horrific. What’d you do, melt all your skin off in a nuclear… Wait…” Tony laughs, can this get any more bizarre? “I read comics about you, man, Red Skull?” 

It’s ghastly, but Tony can’t pull his gaze away, examining livid red skin – angular cheekbones, sunken eyes. 

“I don’t care for that name – or, I didn’t.”

“How’d you end up here?” Steve shifts on his feet, anxious energy, Tony’s surprised he’s not thrown a punch at his old enemy. _He was a great one, too, his monologues gave me nightmares. Dad smacked me upside the head for getting fingerprints on that one issue, I seem to recall…_

“It does not matter, Captain Rogers – that life is not the life I have now.” Red Skull steps back, widening his arms invitingly. “Now, I serve as a guide, and a protector. Of the Soul Stone, I suppose that’s why you are both here.” 

“Yep,” Tony says, walking forward, hearing Steve inhale sharply. He walks all the way down the thin beaten path to the edge of the cliff, whistling as he stares down at the base. “No wonder it took us hours, Steve, this shit is tall. Where’s Nebula’s sister?” 

“Dead,” Red Skull says, at his side in an instant, and Tony windmills his arms to keep himself from falling over the edge in shock. 

“Stop doing that! Jesus, stop!”

The spectral form, if it has any existing sense of humor, seems to crack a smile at that.

“I rarely get visitors.”

“Yeah, well, no wonder. Scare the shit out of anyone who comes to visit you. Goddamn.” 

He feels a large hand on his back, thick fingers sinking into the fabric of his suit, and Steve pulls him back with all of his strength. Tony practically goes flying back into the other man. 

“What the hell are you thinking?!” Steve’s hands are on his shoulders, shaking forcefully. His face is drawn, eyes wide, teeth grit together. “You could have fallen.” 

“Steve…” Tony reaches up gently and pats him on the cheek. _I think I’m gonna end up falling anyways._ “I’m okay.” 

Red Skull watches this impassively. “You haven’t asked me how to get the Stone.”

Tony looks over his shoulder at him, scowling. “Do people usually bother to ask? I can make a guess.”

“What do you mean?” Steve looks between the both of them, not following.

“Steve,” Tony pats him on the cheek again. “I know I said I wasn’t gonna shove you off the edge. And I’m not. But I’m pretty sure you’ve got to be the one doing the shoving.” 

“What?” Steve’s skin is cold against his palm, and his eyes bulge slightly. “No, absolutely not.”

“Anthony is correct,” Red Skull sounds a little gleeful – _what a bastard. Probably derives sexual satisfaction from this._ “The Soul Stone requires a soul before it reveals itself. A soul for a soul, as it were.” 

“Poignant,” Tony nods, and apparently Red Skull isn’t a fan of sarcasm, because red lips are drawn back into a grimace. 

“I’m not… I’m not…” Steve can’t find the words, and Tony runs his hands over his shoulders soothingly. 

“Hey, look. Look at me, Steve.” Tony meets his gaze when the other man is finally able to lift his head to look at him. Gently, he runs the fingers of his right hand through soft blonde hair, taking his time. _This is the last time I’m ever going to touch him._ He’ll need convincing, but Tony has always been very persuasive.

“Can you give us a sec, please?” Tony snaps at Red Skull, and the figure disappears in a cloud of smoke. _Drama queen._

“This is crazy,” Steve sounds almost hysterical, borderline, anyways. “There has to be another way.”

“Steve,” Tony returns his attention to him now that they are alone. “C’mon. Thanos came here with his daughter – and left without her, but with the Soul Stone. Gamora isn’t playing hide and seek, you heard Red Skull -.”

“Schmidt.”

“Schmidt,” Tony corrects himself obediently, though it’s not nearly as impressive. “He said she was dead. I don’t think he’s lying. Nebula didn’t think so either.”

“I’m not killing you.” Steve says sharply, his face contorting – fury, anguish, determination. It transforms so fast that Tony only catches each emotion fleetingly. “I’m **not**.” 

“You’re not going to kill me,” Tony agrees, removing vials of soil and rock from his pocket. “But I’m going to die.” 

“Why?” Steve sounds so lost, even as Tony starts putting the vials into the other man’s pockets. Steve won’t know what to do with them, but maybe Bruce will – or Peter, if they get him back… 

“Why me?”

Steve nods.

“Well,” Tony pauses, thinking it over. “I’m not Captain America.”

“Tony,” Steve snaps, “You can’t make this choice because of — of hero worship, or — or a lack of self esteem, or…”

Tony shakes his head slowly, raising his hand again to rest it against Steve’s cheek. _Still cold. Cold sweat._ “It’s not any of those things, Steve, but I appreciate the therapy session in a time like this.”

Steve blinks, and opens his mouth to apologize, but Tony cuts him off before he can. 

“I’m not Captain America. I’m Tony Stark. In the future, the world will rally at the battle cry of Captain America. They won’t do that for Tony Stark. It’s simple, I die, you get the Stone. You go back home, you all use the Infinity Stones to get everyone back – life moves on. You have to trust me, this is the only way.”

“We should have gone to New York,” Steve says miserably, and there are tears welling in his eyes. Tony quickly brushes them away before they can fall.

“You kidding? Me, subterfuge? Totally not my scene. Romanoff and Barton, though? They’re probably having a ball. I bet they’ve strung 2012 Tony up in a sex dungeon somewhere. Might as well, I don’t know how they’ve resisted this long.”

Steve does not smile, and more tears are falling. Tony, on the other hand, feels nothing. Maybe the faintest bit of terror – but he’s accustomed to death. Yes, he’s afraid of heights, but it ought to be immediate. It will be nothing like slowly starving, adrift in space. It will be nothing like the fifteen minutes of sheer paralysis Obadiah Stane inflicted on him, razor-sharp shrapnel moving through his sluggish veins to his heart. _Quick. Painless, maybe._

“We have to get them back, Steve.” Tony steps in closer to him, wrapping an arm around his waist. “I have to – Peter needs to come back. He needs to live. I can’t keep living when he’s not, it’s not fair. And if it takes me dying for you to bring him back, bring everybody back...” Tony shrugs, “My life’s not worth that much. It almost feels like a good deal, like I’m ripping off fate.” 

Steve closes his eyes, bowing his head, and Tony presses his forehead against his before he retreats entirely into himself.

“You know I’m right,” Tony doesn’t say it to be arrogant. “And at least it’s you. I wouldn’t want — anyone else to — be here, when I…”

Steve is tense in his arms, shaking slightly, and Tony rubs his hand against the small of his back soothingly.

“Remember Paris?” He asks Steve suddenly, his voice light. “I know you do, we had great times there. Great food, great music. But that first morning, in Paris, remember? That music from the jazz club, and you made me dance with you in my underwear?” 

Steve nods slowly, and Tony can feel his tears hot against his own skin. 

“Dance with me, Steve, c’mon.” Tony starts to sway them, which takes a lot of effort – given Steve’s bulk. He closes his eyes, thinking back to that morning in Paris, and is able to recall the song. Steve stiffens in his arms as Tony starts to hum, but his feet move slowly, no longer dragging. Tony rests his head against Steve’s chest, listening to his rapid heartbeat. _This isn’t fair. But that’s my life – it’s what I deserve._

“Promise me you’ll get them back?” The heels of Tony’s shoes dangle over air, and his toes dig against the inside of them, trying to keep himself here – with Steve, not dangling over the edge of a cliff. Not dead. 

“Tony,” Steve’s voice breaks, and his tears fall faster. “Please don’t make me do this.”

“You’re not doing anything, Steve,” Tony leans up, his hamstrings trembling at the effort, and kisses Steve softly on the cheek. “I’ve still got my arms around you, remember?” His sweaty fingers dig against the soft skin at the nape of Steve’s neck. _His perfect neck. Didn’t admire it enough. Wide – like a column. The muscles, perfect. His skin. Perfect._ “But I need you to let go.”

Steve squeezes tighter, and Tony sighs. “Steve, let go.”

Steve sobs, a terrible sound, and his arms fall away from Tony’s waist.

“That’s it,” Tony says soothingly. “You’re okay. I promise.” He kisses Steve on the lips, which are terribly dry, and Steve’s tears are salty and hot against his tongue. Steve’s hands tremble at his sides, and Tony knows he wants to reach out and pull him back to safety – and if he doesn’t act quickly, Steve will do just that. 

“Steve,” Tony can hear the reverence in his own voice – the tone he had taken when he had said the words _Captain America_ in any conversation – but now, just for Steve. 

“I love you.” It’s so easy, so true. Tony has not said that to Steve since the first night they shared together, mumbled sleepily against the other man’s chest when he thought Steve was asleep. Tony had thought it many times, and Steve had said it to him – but now Tony says it and means it. _It’s three great dying words._

Tony’s hands drop away from Steve’s neck, the warmth of the other man’s body fades in an instant – cold air that whistles in his ears, and then immense, unspeakable pain as his body hits the rock below. And then nothing. 

* * *

Wielding all six Infinity Stones should kill Steve Rogers, but it doesn’t. He clings to life desperately, Tony’s words from years ago ringing in his ears as he slumps in the dirt, his own skin burning. _Find a way to time travel and tell me the moment you found out._

He spends weeks in the med bay, receives skin graft after skin graft, and barely talks. Bucky comes to visit, sometimes, just to keep him company. If they have a funeral for Tony, they don’t tell him about it – but that’s fine, he’s going to be seeing Tony again very soon. Very soon. 

Sam offers to take all the Stones back to their rightful place, and Steve is finally out of the med bay for that meeting. His chest and abdomen still ache, and the mottled burns look terrible – but it’s all okay, because he’s going to see Tony again. Very soon. 

“No,” Steve says, his voice hoarse from disuse. “No, I’ll do it.”

“Cap,” Sam frowns, and Natasha is frowning at him too.

“Steve, you need rest,” her voice lowers, an effort to be soothing – but Steve isn’t the Hulk, and he needs to see Tony.

“I’ve got enough rest,” Steve tries to wave his right arm, his fingers still numb, but it remains motionless at his side. He tries to snap his fingers sometimes, like he had with the gauntlet on, but they don’t even twitch. He had been offered a prosthetic – but that would involve an amputation. Nothing they could create here would be as good as what Tony would create – so why bother? Tony will fix his arm. Hell, he’ll probably create synthetic nerves and reroute Steve’s entire peripheral nervous system. 

“Steve,” Natasha repeats.

“He has to do it,” Bucky speaks up at his right. “It’s just putting the Stones back, right? He’s strong enough for that. And he can take his time.”

No one seems particularly convinced, but the discussion ceases. Steve will step out into the woods tomorrow, onto the platform that Bruce and Scott have built, and he will return the Stones to their rightful locations. That’s not all, though, he has Tony’s spare Pym particle. He had tucked it into Steve’s pocket alongside the soil samples Bruce is occasionally working on. All he needs is one, anyways – there’s no use coming back here, not when he can see Tony. See him alive. Spare him.

“What are you planning?” Bucky stands in the doorway of his room that night, the soft orange light from Steve’s bedside lamp glints off of his arm.

“I’m going to stop you from killing Howard and Maria Stark,” Steve says simply, resting on a bed that is far too big for one person – before he falls asleep, he can lean over and press his face against Tony’s pillow, and smell his shampoo. But it’s fading.

“Steve.” Bucky reaches up to run a hand over his stubbled jaw.

“I have to, Buck – not just because of – of – but, I can’t live life knowing that you’re out there, suffering, when I could…”

“But it’s not me.” 

“It is you,” Steve replies fervently, “It is you. Yeah, it’ll be hard. I’ve got notes on what they did to you in Wakanda, and I won’t have access to the tech, but I’ll make it work.” 

“He’s dead, Steve,” Bucky says sadly, looking away from him. 

“But he’s not – not there. I’m going to save his parents. I have to save his parents.” 

Bucky says nothing, he looks at Steve for a long moment – Steve can see pity there, and exasperation. And then he is alone, lying on a bed that is too big for just one person, with Tony’s ghost beside him.

The following morning, Steve feels no pain as he climbs out of bed, which is a first. He puts on the red, white, and black suit he’s not worn since he had stood on the edge of the cliff in Vormir, watching Tony’s blood spread rapidly across the grey soil. So vibrant, so alive – too much blood, all of his blood. The fingers of his right hand tingle, he can feel the bones of Tony’s skull shifting at his touch. Steve swallows back bile.

He collects the briefcase by his dresser, an unassuming item considering the six Infinity Stones within – but that’s not all. Cash, credit cards, a California state driver’s license, a Social Security card – all registered under the name Grant Stevens. Tony would laugh himself to tears, face red, and wheeze that Steve had no creativity. Steve smiles slightly, hefting the briefcase in his left hand. Tony will see right through it, and Tony will call him Steve – that’s all that matters.

A cardinal chirps loudly from a towering tree next to the platform, and Steve looks up at it curiously. Tony, warning him not to do this – or Tony, telling him to come?

“We’ll see you in five seconds, Cap.”

The platform whirs beneath his feet, and Steve closes his eyes. He will need to wear a jacket on December 16th, 1991. It will be cold, the treacherous driving conditions had been blamed in addition to Howard Stark’s BAC level. Fighting the Winter Soldier will be difficult without the shield, but he’s prepared – he will render Bucky unconscious and drag him into the woods where his car will be stored. From there, they’ll hide out in Brooklyn, and Steve can take a few years to rehabilitate him. Tony will be far too young for Steve to introduce himself in 1991 – just 21. Steve ignores the doubts at that thought, that Tony Stark – with those big brown eyes and clean shaven face, will look at him and see an older man with a useless arm and scarring down his neck. No, Steve shakes his head slightly.

He and Bucky will move out to Malibu on Tony’s 24th birthday, the same day as Tony does - no longer driven to drinking and sleeping around to handle the pressure of being Stark Industries’ golden boy. He will be free to invent – Steve knows that is what he will do, without the bone-crushing pressure and expectations. He can’t wait to see what Tony comes up with. Steve will one day head to the grocery store with a small list for him and Bucky, and he will reach out for a tomato just as Tony Stark will reach for the same one. His slender fingers, nicked from some workshop snafu, will brush along the back of Steve’s hand. He’ll look up, and brown eyes will meet blue. Tony will blush, Steve can feel the heat of it even as he stands on the platform, waiting. He’ll recognize Steve in an instant, thinking in horror of the countless times he’d touched himself as he had stared at his Captain America poster when he was fifteen and beyond – even now, sometimes… 

Steve will grin and pull his hand away, and will allow Tony to get the tomato – but only if he agrees to have coffee with Steve. Tony will blush, and stammer, and say _hey, aren’t you…?_ Steve will introduce himself, offering Tony his hand. Tony will shake it, his fingers brushing along the inside of his wrist.

_Sure – sure, I’ll have coffee with you._ Tony’s grin will be eager. _I don’t have anything cold, we could go now._

They’ll sit at the coffee shop, and Tony will stare at him every now and again, and when Steve catches him, he’ll blush furiously. Tony will tell him what he’s working on, pulling out a mangled looking notebook from his pocket – and instead of detailed descriptions of his nightmares, as he kept in the one at his and Steve’s brownstone apartment in New York – this notebook will be filled with ideas and designs. Tony will take a big gulp of coffee, and then look Steve dead in the eyes. _I can show you, if you want to come back to my apartment._

Tony’s apartment will be messy, covered in circuitry and twisted pieces of metal, so much that it will be hard to see the floor. Dum-E will whir from where he’s placed in the corner of the living room. Tony will hop and skip over things, the path hardwired in his brain. He’ll put away his few groceries and get a glass of water for the two of them, and he’ll direct Steve over to the couch. He’ll shove what might be a Playboy magazine off of the couch quickly before Steve can sit, expression mortified. Steve will sit down next to him, and he will tell Tony everything.

Tony might not believe him at first – but he’s already gotten over a big hurdle, that Captain America is sitting on his couch. The idea of him – **Tony Stark** – being a super hero – that will be the hardest thing for him to come to terms with. But then… Tony will lean forward on the couch, and press his lips gently to the scar his gloved fist had left just at the edge Steve’s eyebrow, tracing the risen line down to his cheek. It’s faded with age – but Tony had been right – butterfly bandages were not as good as stitches. 

He’ll pull back, resting on his haunches, cheeks flushed. Steve will do his best not to stare at Tony’s lips, just as soft as before, just as perfectly shaped. Tony will reach out and rest his hand against Steve’s deadened right arm. _I can help you with this,_ he’ll say, his voice quiet. Steve will begin to hear the gears shifting in Tony’s brain, the endless amount of ideas taking shape simultaneously. 

And then – Tony’s eyes will light up – an idea that just might work. He’ll lean forward again, not as hesitant, and press his lips to Steve’s. The kiss will be slow at first, though Tony might let out the faintest whimper as he brushes his fingers through Steve’s soft blonde hair. And then, he’ll be sitting on Steve’s lap, his arms wrapped around him, tongue in Steve’s mouth. Steve will melt into the kiss, remembering Tony’s last words to him.

Tony will boldly reach between them and unzip Steve’s jeans, touch greedy, and then he’ll pause. Steve will watch as Tony’s tongue darts out over his bottom lip, his mouth suddenly dry. _Steve, I’ve never – uh – been with a…_ Tony will rub the back of his neck hesitantly, fingers shifting through dark brown curls. Steve’s fingers will itch to knock Tony’s hand away and run his fingers through Tony’s thick hair, but instead he’ll reach forward with his left hand and unzip Tony’s jeans in turn. Tony will arch against him when Steve’s hand wraps around the both of them, and he’ll press his face against Steve’s neck with a muffled sob.

It will be over in a matter of moments, Tony’s forehead resting against his, his breathing labored. _Hey,_ Tony will say softly after he’s caught his breath, his hand brushing over the broad expanse of Steve’s chest, pausing over the metal of the dog tags and the ring. Slender fingers will trail over his scarred skin, and Steve will imagine a tingle as Tony’s fingers brush over his paralyzed arm. _Do you want to stay for dinner? I’ve got this recipe of my mom’s I’ve been meaning to try. She’s been bugging me about it…_ Tony will look at him shyly, his brown eyes warm. _I’d love for you to stay._

Yes _._ Tony will kiss him again when he says that, and Steve will smile against his lips.

Maybe Tony will wear the ring that’s now resting against Steve’s chest, the world around him disappearing in a flash of light. Maybe he won’t, and that’s fine. But this time, Steve will find Tony, do right by him, and love him – if Tony lets him. He wishes he had done that from the start, but Steve has a second chance. He’ll see Tony again – very soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would love to hear your thoughts! what do you think about a sequel? would things go exactly as steve imagined them to? i guess if the russo brothers can fuck around with time travel and alternate realities, so can i! look forward to hearing what you think, thanks for reading, commenting, kudosing - and sticking with me on a wild ride of what really was just a one shot and then... wasn't.


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